


101 Ways to Feel Conflicted

by Mairyn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: (Who Does His Own Healthy Amount of Flirting with Nate Because of Course He Does), F/M, Family Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Found Family, Redemption, Romance, Slow Burn, Wing-Man Anders, Written Like a Traditional Bioware Romance Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mairyn/pseuds/Mairyn
Summary: Nathaniel Howe's father betrayed the Cousland family and had them murdered in cold blood. Fane should, by all accounts, hate him with a ferocity unmatched. And she does. Until time and circumstance begin to show her that Nathaniel's quest for redemption is genuine.Or: Bioware wouldn't give me a Howe romance so I wrote it my own damn self.





	1. Commander of the Grey

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of time, love, and care went into crafting what I felt would be a plot-cohesive romance arc for these two characters, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Alternatively, if all you want is the smut, that's in Chapter 6 and can more or less be read comfortably as a stand-alone piece.)

_9:31 Dragon, 17 Justinian_

Amid elves turning into werewolves and secret dragon-worshipping cults, finding an old family friend in the dungeon of his own father’s keep hardly registered among the most remarkable events in Fane Cousland’s life since becoming a Grey Warden. Yet she marveled all the same.

She had expected an unknown enemy of great power and skill when the private informed her the thief resisted arrest right up until four Grey Wardens pinned him down and secured him limb by limb. What she found instead was Nathaniel Howe: son of the late Arl Rendon Howe and childhood playmate to her brother and herself. Age and grief had worn him down from the young man she’d last seen waving goodbye from atop the Keep’s walls. Grey streaked his temples. Exhaustion smudged dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looked tired, frustrated, older. And his surname now irreversibly tethered him to a night she wanted nothing more than to forget.

But Maker spit on his father, she couldn’t. The details lingered in the back of her mind like cobwebs just out of her reach. So many good men and women she’d known for more than twenty years—friends and family alike—slain in their sleep. Slain as they tried to escape. Slain as they fought, bravely, during the ensuing battle. Oriana and Oren, their throats slit and blood pooling languidly on the rug in their quarters. Her father collapsed on the floor in the larder, riddled with wounds too deep to ever hope to heal and holding himself together with bloodied hands, clinging to life just long enough to sanction her escape. Her mother’s eyes when panic became resignation and acceptance settled in, when she recognized that staying with her husband would mean forfeiting her own life. The way she’d clutched Fane tight and warm and _familiar_ one last time before demanding that she flee with Duncan.

Worse still was the emptiness of her former home when at last she returned a year after the fact, a dozen echoing halls bearing no suggestion of the betrayal their walls had witnessed. The stone was scrubbed clean by servants, the bodies burned and given proper rites. Fergus claimed the title of Teyrn and the keep reclaimed a measure of its former, bittersweet glory. She remembered plainly the smell, the light, the warmth of the pyre they held in their family’s honor and the comforting weight of Fergus’s arm firm around her shoulders as she wept. True comfort came only in the form of a sneering, sniveling man bleeding out on a grimy dungeon floor in Denerim.

It seemed time had not been kind to either of them. Nathaniel sat slumped against the back wall of his cell, resting a forearm stiffly on one of his knees. He was six years her senior, but the dark hollows of his eyes and the slight—perhaps even a mere suggestion—of too many meals foregone in his lightly sunken cheeks betrayed more than simple age. She was not the only one who had suffered torment the last eighteen months. That burden, she supposed, fell on all of Ferelden.

“This one’s been locked up three nights now,” a palpable bitterness backed the cell guard’s words. He looked on at his prisoner with mild disgust, arms folded loosely across his chest. “Good men died while this one was protected in his cell.”

Fane looked on and wasn’t certain what to feel. Three nights ago, Vigil’s Keep was a still sentinel on the horizon. Now its outer walls were in shambles and half its population lay in graves. She spoke curtly. “Unlock his cell and leave us.”

“As you wish, Commander.”

He saluted her quickly and did as she asked. Fane waited until the door closed behind her and the guardsman’s footsteps disappeared down the hall before stepping through Nathaniel’s cell door, resting her hand firmly on the hilt of her sword lest he attempt to make an escape. Instead, he merely sneered and climbed stiffly to his feet.

“Well if it isn’t the great hero, conqueror of the Blight, and vanquisher of all evil,” his belittling tone only served to make him sound like the child she remembered. “Aren’t you supposed to be ten feet tall with lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?”

 _I see my reputation precedes me_ , Fane thought, but chose instead to bite back. “That’s hardly the way to treat an old family friend now is it, Nathaniel?”

“Is ‘family friend’ the title usually applied to your father’s murderer?”

Fane tensed. “Is ‘father’ usually the title applied to a man who slaughtered his oldest friend and his entire family?”

If Nathaniel were a mage, Fane was certain she’d be little more than a pile of cinders by now, seeing how his eyes burned with fury. She knew that look all too well. It was the very same one she’d given King Cailan the day he told her avenging her family would have to wait until after the battle—the look she gave him when she lashed out in childish petulance she’d long since outgrown and Duncan had been forced to apologize on her behalf. Hatred of that caliber lingered. It wouldn’t simply vanish.

“My father served the Hero of River Dane and fought against the Orlesians. He was an honorable man.” His fists clenched at his sides, but he knew better than to raise them. Was he reminding Fane, or himself? “If he attacked, then your father did something to provoke it.”

Sure enough, that familiar hatred was bubbling in her own stomach now, threatening to erupt. What a fool he was to even _attempt_ to justify something so wicked and senseless. “Honorable men don’t slaughter women and children in the dead of night.”

“The Blight drives people to wickedness!” Nathaniel shouted, taking full advantage of his height allowing him to loom over her. Fane felt her face reddening with frustration. “My father would never—!”

“The Blight is no excuse for taking innocent lives!”

The shout rang between them for a moment and they both dropped into silence. The tip of her nose and planes of her face smarted somewhat with the chill of the dungeon. Nathaniel shifted his weight and unclenched his fists.

“Nor was it an excuse to wipe out the very order you now command,” his voice softened in volume, but the firmness of his tone did not yield. “Yet Loghain lives and my father doesn’t. His death was a product of petty revenge and nothing more. I would have thought the Hero of Ferelden nobler.”

There were a thousand tales about his father that would make his skin crawl and his world turn on its head. But she ignored temptation and forced her fury to still. Arguing would do them little good. Nathaniel was in no place to question her decisions; what was done was done. His father was dead, as he should be, and nothing could convince her otherwise.

She resigned herself. “What were you doing in my keep, Nathaniel?”

“‘My keep,’” he spat back, bitterly. Nonetheless, he seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. “I came here because I thought I was going to kill you.”

“And why didn’t you?” she asked. “Short of being captured.”

“Because I decided it would be wise not to sink to your level,” he replied. “Revenge is a petty practice, no matter how tempting.” He eyed her carefully, but she pretended not to notice even as she could practically feel the daggers of his gaze sink into her throat. The tension gradually abated, and he sighed. “I wanted to claim a few of my family’s things. I was captured on my way out.”

“Your family’s possessions are still here?” she asked, though she knew better.

“What your men didn’t burn.”

She had her firm suspicions that the room she now slept in once belonged to the late Lady Howe, or perhaps to Nathaniel’s sister Delilah. The dresser still housed a series of expensive nightdresses, skirts, and blouses. A small collection of sentimental novels was stacked by the bedside. The pillows had frills and several pressed flower arrangements were framed along the eastern wall. For all that the sense of décor was rather against her sensibilities, the bed was soft and warm, and that was all she really needed in the end.

The door suddenly swung open, startling her somewhat, and she turned her head just in time to see the guardsman from before enter with Seneschal Varel.

“I see you’ve spoken to our guest,” Varel said, ever the perfect diplomat. He came to a halt behind her, eyeing Nathaniel with suspicion. “Have you decided what’s to be done with him?”

“Were you aware this is Nathaniel Howe?” she asked.

He shook his head. “A Howe? It figures that they would turn up again.”

Nathaniel hardly deserved a hanging for attempting to claim possessions which were rightfully his own, but neither did she want him around the keep, as a prisoner or otherwise. Allowing that particular brand of vitriol to brew while darkspawn were _speaking_ wouldn’t lead to anything worthwhile. Best to let him go and be done with it. She would concern herself with any potential repercussions at a later date.

“Release him,” Fane ordered, stepping out of the door and clearing his way. “Give him his family’s belongings and then escort him from the keep.”

The guardsman was visibly surprised, but rightfully made no move to contradict her decision. Varel, however, was another matter.

“Commander, I must object.” He seemed bewildered by what she supposed looked like unreasonable stupidity. He spoke to her as though chastising an impossibly clumsy new recruit. “The Howes are implacable enemies. This course of action will only bring harm.”

Fane held her ground, giving him a withering look. Of course it was feasible Nathaniel might return and that he was lying through his teeth, but since when had her relationship with potential assassins ever been appropriately cautious? The smooth expanse of Zevran’s back streaked red by ecstasy-driven fingernails was as real as the threat of him had ever been. And yet she lived on. “My decision has been made.”

She stole a glance at Nathaniel who, more than anything else, looked insulted by her indifference. “You’d simply release me? Just like that?”

“Would you prefer I had you executed?” Fane prompted.

Nathaniel contained his disbelief poorly, but said nothing as he stepped out of his cell. A nearby chest held what few belongings he’d brought with him. He stripped out of the linen shirt the guard had given him and began to dress in his leathers, heedless of anyone else’s presence. Fane jerked her head towards the door, signaling that the seneschal should leave. He stubbornly remained for a moment, then gave in at her insistence. The guardsman followed his lead. Once again, the two of them were alone.

Fane kept her eyes averted out of politeness as the man finished dressing. When next she looked, his bow and quiver were strung across his back. He paused, eyes searching hers, seeking reason she found she couldn’t yet give. She wasn’t certain why she’d lingered. Or why she’d dismissed Varel, for that matter.

Perhaps it was the taste of home, however bitter.

For a moment, Nathaniel seemed to be thinking the same thing. But following a brief interlude of quiet consideration, he turned on his heel and left, the door swinging shut behind him. Fane stood alone in the dungeon for another long moment, then removed her hand from the hilt of her sword.

 

* * *

 

_9:31 Dragon, 10 Solace_

Every damned person in the keep needed Fane’s help the day she, Anders, and Oghren returned from a long stint in Amaranthine empty-handed, Kristoff nowhere to be found save for a map and various whisperings suggesting that _perhaps_ he yet remained in the Blackmarsh. There were nobles to meet. Basement passages to explore. Reports of caravans being attacked in the Wending Wood and a strange chasm in the Knotwood Hills all but gushing darkspawn. Greater was the concern that apparently the Blight hadn’t ended; for every speaking darkspawn, there seemed to be droves of the usual kind, as well. The last thing she needed was a visitor the moment—the very moment—she at last found some time to rest. And yet the guardsman at her door, a timid thing, swore it was so.

“I wouldn’t dare bother you if it weren’t important, Commander, but the fellow refuses to leave without an audience,” the guardsman said, and Fane was surprised by her thick Starkhaven accent. She looked as though she knew precisely how worn down Fane felt and was sorry for even suggesting yet another disruption.

“Threaten him with imprisonment,” Fane groaned, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Surely _that_ should scare him off.”

She didn’t mean it, of course. But she was exhausted enough for the thought to tempt her, at the very least. By the way the guardsman wavered, it seemed Fane’s demeanor was more than convincing.

“Commander, if I may, the problem seems to be that no one quite knows the respect he’s due,” the guardsman fiddled with the edge of her belt as she spoke, seemingly without realizing. “You released him from our dungeon only weeks ago without repercussion.”

And _that_ caught her attention. It could only be Nathaniel, then, which meant he’d returned after all. She might have been surprised if the turn of events wasn’t so entirely in character. Nathaniel, she’d learned early in life, was nothing if not adamant. Adamant about winning the games he played with Fergus. Adamant about joining the army against his father’s wishes. Adamant about not becoming the next Arl of Amaranthine. Perhaps now he had become adamant about retribution. Fane sighed, glancing at the armor she’d only just bothered to remove in favor of more comfortable clothing—a linen shirt and soft leather trousers—and mentally weighed whether the intimidation factor was worth calling someone to help her put it all back on again.

“I’ll be down in a moment,” she tiredly conceded. “Have him wait in the Great Hall.”

The guardsman bowed her head and quickly departed. Fane grabbed her longsword, sheathed in its scabbard, from its resting place atop the dresser. She thought for what must have been the hundredth time that she really should stow her things in the armory like everyone else, but preparation at all times had become second nature in the days following—

Well. _Recently_.

Fane tied on her sword belt and set out, making her way down the long staircase leading to the Great Hall. The plush velvet rug muffled her footsteps, only serving to emphasize the remarkable silence. It was early evening and dinner was still an hour or so away. In the meantime, it seemed the majority of her men were either training, rebuilding, or on duty, leaving the keep’s interior more or less abandoned. Pressing through the door ahead of her, Fane found the Great Hall empty as well, save for the seneschal, Captain Garevel, and Nathaniel Howe locked in a tense silence at the head of the fire pit. The three men seemed simultaneously relieved when they noticed her presence.

A brief flicker of interest from Nathaniel suggested that he was likely surprised to see her in commoner’s clothing, but he made no comment on the fact. She was much more willowy than the ever-present bulk of her armor would lead people to believe. For the time being, however, her longsword remained a steady presence and symbol of her position, as well as a gentle suggestion that any false moves would be met by the hand that felled an Archdemon.

“We will remove him at your order, Commander,” Garevel said, restoring her attention to the situation at hand.

Nathaniel’s greeting came close at the Captain’s heels. “Commander. I wish to speak with you.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Fane responded. She looked to the captain and seneschal, both of whom seemed somewhat uneasy. “It’s alright. Leave us.” They would no doubt remain close at hand should anything happen, but their presence was a distraction. She waited until they were gone before addressing the archer directly. “Speak, then.”

Nathaniel looked around the Hall. No doubt he had many memories here. She, too, remembered it—though only vaguely—from her childhood. Her family had travelled to Vigil’s Keep from time to time when she was very young, though the nondescript Ferelden grandeur was all that really stuck in the end. That was more than fifteen years ago, now.

“I want to know why,” Nathaniel said at last, meeting her eyes squarely. He looked healthier having spent the last month in freedom, but it seemed the tired shadows beneath his eyes refused to dissipate. “Tell me why you released me.”

“Trespassing is hardly a crime worthy of death,” Fane replied, eyeing the faint streaks of gray at his temples. “I saw no reason to fight a battle neither of us would win.”

This, at least, seemed as though it didn’t surprise him. Nathaniel’s diplomacy indicated he wasn’t here to harm her, but if that wasn’t the case she could scarcely imagine what the true reason might be. Their last meeting seemed to indicate he hated her with the same fiery vitriol she once felt for his father. Now he seemed calm, contemplative.

“Why did you allow me to claim my family’s things?” He was judging her answers, she realized. Reevaluating who he believed her to be. She supposed there was no better tactic than sincerity.

“Orphaned children cling to what little connects them with their families,” Fane said. In the aftermath of the Blight, when she’d returned to Highever with Fergus, she took the time to claim a few of her parents’ belongings: an old necklace of her mother’s and a ring of her father’s bearing the Cousland crest. She wore them even now, tucked beneath the collar of her shirt. A comfort, in lonelier times. “I’m an orphan myself; surely you realize I understand that.”

Nathaniel nodded and it was only then that Fane took the time to notice he was dressed in hardened leathers and carrying his bow. At his feet was a pack, presumably stuffed with his few belongings. He noticed her perplexed look and explained.

“I had planned to leave Ferelden.”

“Then why are you here?”

“In the dungeon,” Nathaniel began, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I fully expected to die in there. But you let me go.” No doubt he’d been treated unkindly by many since returning to Ferelden. Whether or not his father had been a bastard, she imagined much of it was unwarranted. At last he admitted, “I have severely misjudged you.”

“And now?” she prompted, perplexed.

“Make me a Grey Warden.”

Fane instinctually recoiled, but remained as steady as possible. This was easily the last thing she’d expected. For all that Grey Wardens were needed—now, especially—few seemed so eager to volunteer. And yet his eyes were earnest. Like he’d never been so set on anything in his life.

“I’m not certain you understand what you’re asking,” Fane said, palm absently rubbing the pommel of her sword as she considered. “Becoming a Grey Warden isn’t a decision that should be made lightly. It requires sacrifice—more than you can imagine. When you become a Grey Warden you are bound to the order until your death. There is nothing else.”

“I almost can’t believe I’m asking,” Nathaniel agreed. “But I am serious. My family is dead. There’s nowhere left for me to go.”

“Last I heard from your father you were squired in the Free Marches,” Fane suggested, hopeful. She was surprised to find herself attempting to spare him and testing him at once. “Couldn’t you return to that?”

“I could,” he shrugged. “But truth be told I never cared for the Marches. Or squirehood. This—joining the Grey Wardens—this is what I feel is right. This is where I belong, if you’ll have me.”

In the wake of his startling sincerity, Fane couldn’t help but ask, “Do you mean to do this as a way of redeeming your family name?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s not even important,” he shrugged. “Maybe it’s more important that I do my part to face the darkspawn. Maybe that’s what my father should have done.”

A worthy answer, but her own doubts lingered—frustratingly so. The case had been much the same with the others, although Anders’ circumstances hardly permitted any other option. The weight of the Joining and what it meant—the secrecy of it—was a heavy burden to bear. She wasn’t certain she would ever become accustomed to the process. Would there come a day when she could face the ceremony with the same steely determination as Duncan? Cowardice was hardly a trait befitting the Commander of the Grey.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.

“You don’t,” he admitted. “And you won’t. But I don’t intend to do you any harm. You have my word, for what little it’s worth.”

Fane paused a moment, summing him up. The fool meant every word. He sincerely wished to become a Grey Warden and redeem what he could. Whether that was his father’s name or his sense of self, she wasn’t certain. Becoming a Grey Warden meant sentencing himself to a brief life, one full of pain. But with the looming threat, they needed everyone they could get. Rebuilding the ranks came first and foremost.

“You’ll take your Joining in two days’ time,” Fane said, allowing him a brief period of contemplation should he change his mind. With the way his eyes seemed to brighten—if only momentarily—she was certain he wouldn’t. “Ask the seneschal to have the staff prepare you a bed in the barracks. We’ll discuss this further when the time comes.”

The low pleasure in his eyes caught her off-guard. “Thank you, Commander.”

She nearly believed he meant it.

 

* * *

 

_9:31 Dragon, 14 Solace_

Nathaniel Howe survived his Joining. But Maker, it never did get any easier. Fane wondered how many Joinings Duncan had witnessed—how he’d felt when he watched her eyes roll back in her skull as she sank to the ground and writhed like a woman set alight, lips stained reddish-black with the weight of her promise. In the days between their departure from Highever and Ostagar’s fall, she’d come to look upon Duncan as the standard for what it meant to be a Grey Warden: careful repose in all things, bearing the weight of his duty like invisible armor, never in danger of faltering. But was it so simple? Or had he merely learned to still the tempest inside of him, restrain it in the very same way she hadn’t yet mastered?

“The Howe is stronger than I expected,” the seneschal approved. He crouched next to Nathaniel’s slumped form and checked to make certain he was still breathing. A cold wash of relief allowed Fane to settle somewhat more comfortably into her armor, but she fought to remain expressionless. “For better or for worse, he will live.”

For better or for worse, indeed.

Fane scheduled the Joining for the evening purposely, hoping to grant him time to rest, time to process before they departed for the Wending Wood in the morning. Nathaniel would accompany her party, both as an initial test and out of necessity. For all that Anders and Oghren were seasoned in battle, three skilled hands fell somewhat short in the face of a veritable brood of darkspawn. Given that it took four Grey Wardens to restrain Nathaniel the night he’d been captured, she had no doubt of his ability.

In the meantime, the waiting festered. A dozen concerns to be dealt with at once swam in her mind as she drifted in and out of lucidity while attempting to sleep, stints of wakefulness interlaced with the strange, thrumming dreams she’d become so accustomed to having in the last year. The marching feet of a thousand darkspawn deep beneath the soil, a broodmother at their helm, twisted and grotesque. Fane gave in when she woke for the third time, two hours before sunrise.

She dressed quickly, tying on her sword belt for good measure, and opened the creaking door to her room as quietly as possible. If sleep was so intent on eluding her, then so be it. Maybe a walk around the keep would still her mind.

The guardsman on duty down the hall from her room looked on at her presence inquisitively, but did not speak beyond a curt, “Morning, Commander.”

“Guardsman,” she nodded.

Truth be told, it was something of a wicked thrill knowing she could explore the keep to her heart’s content—and at any hour, for that matter—without question or reprimand. As a child she’d been warned time and time again to never wander off alone. “Take Fergus with you,” her mother would caution, most often with a firm understanding that Fergus would deny her wishes. Instead they tended to whittle away their hours in the courtyard, like good children should. Any adventures worth having were taken by Fergus and Nathaniel while Fane’s back was turned, leaving her to play with Delilah and Thomas—both her junior by a handful of years—alone. Frustrating as it had been at the time, she felt a brief pang in her chest for those days. It was strange how a mere fifteen years could feel so much like an age.

Fane paused at the stairwell, struggling to remember all the places she’d been so desperate to investigate as a child. There had been the basement—of course there’d been the basement, what with all the mystery and mortal warnings against it—but the heavy suggestion it had been the primary source of the recent darkspawn invasion cooled her interest quickly. She would save that for another day, most likely with a companion or two to watch her back. Her mind sifted through other possibilities, but none held such wonder now that she was older.

A dozen uninvestigated halls and no destination. Shame.

Blindly, Fane headed down the stairs and through the Great Hall, the low fire giving the chamber and the many portraits on its far wall an eerie glow. Arl Rendon Howe, dressed in full armor, seemed to sneer at her from behind the generous hook of his nose. She stared back with equal disdain. Howe: always so prideful, so abrasive. Even as a child she’d heard whispers indicating he was an object of scorn for many, her mother included. Most days it seemed the sense of comradery between the man and her father was more a product of them both being among the few survivors of the Battle of White River and less from any natural affinity towards one another. But she’d been wrong before.

Pride. Pride. _The trophy room_. Maker, how in the world had she forgotten that? Howe had fully forbidden any child from sneaking in and taking a peek lest they break something, though Fane remembered her brother sneaking off to see it on more than one occasion. She’d always been instructed to stay behind. Well, to the flames with that.

After a brief trek down an only vaguely familiar wing of the keep, Fane found herself outside the ever-enticing—and notably _ajar_ —set of doors leading into the trophy room. She paused, fingertips pressed lightly against the cool oak. Who could be inside at this hour? There would be no sense in assigning a guardsman to the room. Not when every item within was branded with the name of one of Ferelden’s great traitors.

She pressed inside and was equally surprised and disappointed to find a room stripped of the taxidermized hunting trophies and items elevated to the status of relics that Fergus once described. Instead, she imagined if she spoke her voice would now be met with the most disappointing of echoes. A few paintings of former Arls remained mounted here and there, as did a shield bearing the Howe crest, but all else had been either stolen or burned. And at the head of the room, standing in front of the shield mounted over an empty fireplace, was Nathaniel. Fane considered fleeing, completely and utterly uncertain of how to respond to such a thing, but she was sure he had already noticed her presence.

“I see now why the Joining is shrouded in so much secrecy,” Nathaniel said, not bothering to turn and face her. “That was—”

She crossed the room, stopping a short distance behind him. Strange that the shield on the wall hadn’t been taken and burned, as well. She wondered why. Perhaps it was one final dig: _look on the spoils of my victory_ rang hollow in an empty room.

“It’s…” she paused, uncertain she would ever really have the words she needed. She settled for the woefully inaccurate. “Unexpectedly traumatic.” Nathaniel turned slightly, cool grey eyes raking over her form. She expected to see anger there, but it seemed that wasn’t the case. As always, he simply looked tired. “Will you be alright?”

“You know, I’m actually not the first Howe to be a Grey Warden.” An inexpert attempt at dodging the question, but he had her attention nonetheless.

“A distant relative, I assume?” She hadn’t realized how insulting her words sounded until they’d left her mouth. She’d known his family well and none of them were Grey Wardens. So it only stood to reason—

“More like following in my great-grandfather’s footsteps,” he said calmly. She settled. “Padric Howe. He joined the order before it returned to Ferelden. Never contacted his family again. Just vanished.” Nathaniel looked down at the old, charred wood in the bottom of the fireplace. “Now that I know about the Joining, I think he died.”

“The Joining takes too many good men and women,” she agreed.

“Father always said he was a horrible man for abandoning the family to join a pointless cause,” he shook his head, disbelieving. For a moment, Fane could almost imagine what it might be like had she found herself on the opposite end of things. If it had been _her_ father who was the traitor, _her_ family now disgraced. It was simple enough to dismiss Arl Howe for what he’d done. Far more difficult was recognizing what that might mean to someone who loved him. “I grew up ashamed of him, but now I see his bravery. That will take some getting used to.”

“The shame of your father’s deeds belongs to your father alone,” Fane said. “I’ve no doubt there were many good and noble men in your family.”

Nathaniel visibly tensed and she couldn’t help but feel she’d said something terribly wrong. They stewed in silence for a long while and Fane grew uncomfortable as it became increasingly heavy. She watched his gaze wander around the empty room. His eyes lingered for a particularly long while on the corner farthest from them. Then, with sudden force, he spoke.

“Something just doesn’t make sense.” And _there_ was the anger she’d anticipated, hurt and frustration all but visibly crackling beneath his skin. “My father misjudged many, but he was a hero. He can’t have been the criminal everyone claims.”

Except that he could and _was_. Nathaniel was grieving, Fane reminded herself, but the dismissal of what his father had done to her family—what she _knew_ he’d done to her family—couldn’t possibly be overlooked.

“You were gone for almost eight years,” Fane kept a level head, but squeezed the hilt of her sword firmly with her left hand. “People change.”

“I understand what he’s guilty of,” Nathaniel’s voice was low, dangerous. “I don’t doubt his responsibility for the death of your family. But there has to be something more to it. Our fathers fought together at the Battle of White River. They were survivors. He would never order the slaughter of your family unless—”

“Speak carefully,” Fane cut him off, terse and far too loud. Realizing this, she swallowed hard and lowered her voice. “Speak carefully.”

The silence between them became too heavy to bear.

“You’re right. I was in the Free Marches for many years,” he was fighting to keep his tempo even, measured. Fane forced herself to let go of her sword. “But a transformation of that measure, so suddenly… It’s impossible.”

“You speak as though he wasn’t reviled long before the Blight ever began,” Fane reminded him. “Perhaps the father you knew wasn’t a murderer, but neither was he the good and noble man you seem so desperate to remember.”

“Do not speak to me of desperation!”

His voice was overwrought. He surged closer to her, no more than a span of inches between them. Fane’s hand instinctively returned to her sword, but she did not falter. She held her ground, met his cold gaze with one of her own until he gave in.

The fire in his eyes had not been extinguished, but neither did he appear to see any point in drawing out the argument further. “Perhaps I should return to the barracks.”

“Perhaps you should.” Nathaniel took one step back, and another, then left without a word.

Perhaps conscripting him had been a mistake after all.


	2. For Those We Have Lost

_9:31 Dragon, 21 Solace_

For all that the hours prior to their departure were laden with tension, the days they spent in the Wending Wood were remarkably benign. (If Fane didn’t count being nearly set aflame by a vengeful elf, briefly imprisoned, and experimented on by hyper-intelligent darkspawn, in any case.) News of the Architect’s existence weighed heavy and Velanna agreed to join the Wardens on the condition of hunting and killing as many darkspawn as possible during her search for Seranni. The root of their lingering darkspawn issue suddenly seemed both clearer and more frightening. Fane now knew her enemy and it wasn’t another Archdemon.

Thank the Maker for small miracles.

With Vigil’s Keep slowly growing closer on the horizon and nearly two days of walking behind them, Fane glanced back over her shoulder at her travelling companions. While she’d felt the need early on to command her men to stop harassing the new recruit with relentless flirting, Velanna had quickly proven she could hold her own admirably. The elf tore Oghren apart so methodically within two hours of exiting the Wending Wood that now he wouldn’t so much as glance in her general direction for too long and while Anders was chatting about spells with her in his usual laid back fashion, any hint of flirting had subsided within a day. Nathaniel, for his part, had been silent for the majority of the trip, though not in a tense or obvious way. He merely seemed contemplative, and so Fane avoided initiating any unnecessary conversations about their argument in the trophy room. If Nathaniel wanted to speak on it, he would, and if he didn’t, then they would silently move forward as though it never occurred.

Miles of farmland stretched around them, green and ripe for harvest. Winter would be awhile yet, but a gentle suggestion of it rested in the wind. They would need to clear up this mess before then, if at all possible. Fane knew from her year spent ending the Blight that travel during the winter was a misery no one should be subjected to. Ferelden was muddy by character, but the addition of melting snow turned it into a veritable bog.

The sound of hooves rapidly approaching caught her attention and she turned to see Nathaniel hurrying to match their horses’ strides. She looked at him inquisitively and he rubbed at the back of his neck before speaking, as though embarrassed. “I feel I should apologize.”

Fane wondered if she shouldn’t do the same before ultimately deciding she’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t feel as though he owed her an apology, but neither did she feel she had spoken out of turn. Any hostility between them—whether over his father’s death or the death of her family—wasn’t going to disappear overnight. They could only attempt to avoid the topic as often as possible. Fane felt they got along well, outside those moments.

“That really isn’t necessary,” she said, but he held up a hand between them to stop her.

“I’m not certain you’ll remember, but regardless of my father’s faults, as a child I looked to no one more highly,” Nathaniel confessed. For what it was worth, Fane did remember. Quite clearly. Young Nathaniel Howe looked at no one like he looked at his father: starry-eyed, a hero without parallel. No doubt a product of his father’s boasting, and yet she supposed there had been some truth to the title, once. “Foolish as it is, in many ways I think a piece of me still believes in that man. More-so than the one he actually was.” Fane turned her head to look at him and was surprised by the open honesty she found in his expression. “My father wasn’t perfect. At times I even hated him. But it’s been a challenge letting that go. I hope you can forgive that.”

Fane awkwardly thumbed the reigns in her hands, seeking the words she needed. She understood his confusion and the frustration that came alongside it. But she wouldn’t apologize for defending the memory of her family and attesting to their innocence. Had Nathaniel been there—had he seen what she saw—she had no doubt he would agree.

“I tend to dismiss your father as nothing more than a criminal and a coward too easily,” Fane told him, rolling her neck uncomfortably. Openness wasn’t her forte, in any sense of the word, but the moment between them carried the weight of importance. She couldn’t overlook the fact. “I understand that he was more than that to you and your family. To my own father, even. But I couldn’t stand by and listen to the death of my family be blamed on their own failings without proof. Surely you see that.”

“I do,” Nathaniel agreed.

Suddenly he grinned, just a little, almost unnoticeable if it weren’t such an anomaly. Fane wondered if it was the first time he’d done so since they’d been reunited. He’d always been grumpy by nature—he was his father’s son, after all—but in his smile she recognized something of the teenaged boy she’d last seen waving goodbye to her family from the gates of his father’s keep. Strange, how comforting that was.

“You always were a hot-headed little thing,” he said. It took Fane a moment to realize he was teasing her. The moment she did, she instinctually flushed and opened her mouth to retaliate, but Nathaniel held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Never without reason.”

“You’d do well not to forget that I’m your Commander,” she said, chin lifted by petulance. Her false bravado was clear. Nathaniel’s smile softened, then gradually faded away as a short silence passed between them. Fane turned her gaze to the keep drawing gradually nearer on the horizon, the faintest hints of the Amaranthine ocean glimmering beyond. “Is it fair for me to ask what you were doing in the trophy room that night?”

Nathaniel smoothed a hand along his horse’s neck. “I spent a lot of time there as a child, against my father’s wishes. It was a comfort. Following the Joining…” He shook his head. “It was foolish of me, to expect anything to be left.”

The grimness of his words resonated. When she returned to Highever following the Blight, she half-expected things to look as they always had. What she found instead was a memory riddled with holes she never could have anticipated. An entire wall had been smashed in, likely by darkspawn. The absence of furniture—much of it smashed to pieces—shone more plainly than its presence ever had. Bare stone floors betrayed the memory of rugs irreparable for all the blood that had settled into them. Fergus would restore it, no doubt, and it would always be her home. But the greed of war was relentless.

“Old habits don’t easily die,” she agreed. For a moment she listened to the low grumble of Oghren’s voice behind her, followed by Anders’ bright laughter. “I would have liked to have seen it. Fergus told me about it.”

“Fergus. Is he…?” Nathaniel trailed off, but the implication was clear. For the first time, Fane realized she’d never informed him of her brother’s survival.

“He’s alive,” Fane said, deciding to gloss over the death of his wife and son. “Father sent him out ahead of the other soldiers. He wasn’t home that night, thank the Maker.”

Nathaniel seemed relieved, but his eyes were far away. Remembering. “Fergus, the Teyrn of Highever. Strange.”

“Strange indeed,” Fane agreed.

They spent the last of their ride back to the keep in silence, but silence of a comforting sort. The others departed for the barracks shortly after entering the gate and Fane brought Velanna with her to the seneschal. Her Joining would take place the next day. In the meantime, Varel instructed a guardsman to lead the elven woman to the barracks and prepare a bed for her. Ferelden would soon have its fifth Grey Warden, assuming she survived. Fane quietly wondered how many sacrifices it took to defend a nation.

She sent Velanna on her way and was just beginning to think she should head to her own room when the seneschal stopped her.

“Commander, if I may,” he bowed his head respectfully, “a matter requiring your urgent attention has arisen in the time you’ve been gone.”

Of course a matter had arisen. One always did. Fane suppressed a groan of frustration. “Report, then.”

“Commander. You requested the rubble be cleared from the basement passages during your absence. Last night a small group of darkspawn found their way out and killed a recruit.” Her tense shoulders dropped in private horror. She pinched her nose with gloved fingers and felt like a bitch for how openly she’d worn her reluctance. This was her fault. “It would be wise to handle the situation as soon as possible.”

“I’ll handle it _now_ ,” Fane said firmly. The others would just have to get their rest later. “Keep two guardsman on the door until I’ve cleared the situation. _No more recruits_.”

“Right away, ser.”

Fane made her way to the barracks in a rush. What had she been thinking, asking her men to clear the passage while she was away? She knew it was the source of the first attack and that leaving it blocked meant keeping the darkspawn out. Whether or not she believed they would attack again was irrelevant, as was whether or not she believed her men could handle it if they did. Not wanting to wait for the passage to be cleared after returning wasn’t a good enough excuse. She would have to stop expediting important tasks and be more careful. She was the Warden Commander of Ferelden now, and that meant every life taken was her own responsibility.

Once in the barracks, Fane pressed into the room Anders and Nathaniel shared with two guardsmen. Anders was inside, but Nathaniel was nowhere to be found.

“Grab your staff,” she said. “We’re not done yet.”

“And just when I thought I was going to grab a little shut-eye,” Anders responded wryly. He rolled his shoulders and grabbed his staff from where it was perched against the wall. “Ah, well. Did you need the old grouse, as well? Should be back any second.” Fane turned to go find him and bumped directly into his unexpectedly broad chest. Nathaniel grabbed her shoulders delicately and put some distance between them. Anders laughed. “Right on cue!”

“Commander?” Nathaniel seemed surprised to see her.

“The basement,” Fane said, as though that explained everything. When he looked at her in confusion, she took a moment to gather herself. “The darkspawn situation in the basement has worsened. We can’t put it off any longer.”

Without question, Nathaniel stepped around her and grabbed his bow and quiver from the top bunk just behind Anders, who was grinning impishly. Fane decided she’d rather not ask. She wondered for a moment if she shouldn’t bring Oghren or Velanna along as well, but decided the three of them could make do easily enough.

They set off for the basement and were met at the courtyard door by a familiar guardsman—Sergeant Maverlies, Fane recalled. The woman briefed them on the state of the tunnels, which were still crumbling from Dworkin’s explosive stint during the attack, and unbarred the door with the promise that she would have a troupe of men follow close behind should the situation get out of hand.

Fane pulled open the door and listened, for a moment, for the sound of any creatures nearby. Only silence and the soft crackle of a nearby torch greeted her. She gestured for Anders and Nathaniel to follow, then headed inside. Maverlies’ men had taken the time to light the torches for her, but the emptiness of the basement was haunting. Her footsteps seemed to echo for eternity and aside from a generous store of crates and barrels, nothing worth investigating caught her eye. Down two flights of stairs they found the first proper room, the corpses of a handful of darkspawn—likely from the battle during her absence—sprawled dead among some of the strangest decorative pillars and statues she had ever seen. Warriors dressed in animal hides like the barbarians of old lined the walls and were carved out of stone. Strange three-headed creatures, chimera-like, wrapped around the pillars and were carved out of ivory.

“These statues were made by the Avaar,” Anders said, his interest matching her own. Fane looked over the warriors and bizarre dragons and wondered what significance they held. “What would they be doing here?”

She glanced at Nathaniel, but he merely shrugged. “My mother forbade us from ever coming down here. I have no idea.”

Strange. Up ahead, a pile of large stones had been moved to one side, revealing the collapsed hull where she imagined a door had once been.

“Watch your step,” Nathaniel warned. “It looks like it could crumble again any minute.”

The three of them had carefully crossed under the crumbling ceiling and into a more stable section of the tunnel when suddenly the hairs on the back of Fane’s neck stood on end. Darkspawn were drawing closer. She drew her sword and held her shield level in front of her, listening. Around the corner ahead, a series of telltale grunts, wet and wicked, betrayed the presence of a group of creatures. Fane’s shoulders tensed as the cool whisper of a barrier spell caressed her skin. Beside her, Nathaniel nocked an arrow. For a moment they waited, tense and still as stone. They sensed her as she sensed them. In her travels she had killed hundreds of darkspawn, but the fear she might not survive the encounter never went away.

In a sudden burst of energy, Fane rushed into the room and was relieved to find just four Hurlocks rather than the veritable horde she’d feared. One immediately came at her with its sword raised to strike and as the blade came down she repelled it with a firm blow from her shield, knocking the sword—and the arm that carried it—aside. She marveled for the thousandth time at just how hideous the creatures were: needle-like teeth bloodied and bared like a rabid dog, yet tall as man, hissing orders in the strange, snake-like tongue which haunted her dreams. Its armor was ancient and rusted to the point where she was only shocked it hadn’t yet fallen off, its sword a great hook of a blade, edge jagged as a saw.

As it swung at her once again, she captured its edge with the flat of her shield and circled it firmly to the ground, throwing the creature off-balance long enough for her to neatly thrust her own sword into its gut, right to the hilt. She twisted the blade savagely and the beast shrieked, collapsing to its knees moments after she drew the weapon from its weeping wound. Another clean stroke across the throat, blood spilling down the front of its armor, and the Hurlock stopped moving altogether.

The sudden crack of one of Anders’ more powerful shockwaves startled her. She still hadn’t grown accustomed to how _loud_ electric spells were; Morrigan’s fire didn’t come close. Across the room, a second Hurlock had turned its gaze upon her, but it scarcely had time to ready its blade before she charged, knocking it hard into the stone wall behind it, its sword clattering to the floor and its armor collapsing with a satisfying crunch. The beast grunted in rage and its twisted yellow hands thrust her back again with unexpected force, causing her to lose her footing and tumble to the floor. Before she realized it, the creature had reclaimed the blade she’d knocked from its hand and she was barely able to lift her shield in time to cut the firm arc of its overhead strike short when an arrow lodged firmly in its neck. It was disoriented long enough for her to scramble to her feet. The fear of a close call coursed through every inch of her body and she all but hurled her blade across its chest, cleanly parting the flesh where her previous blow had smashed its primeval breastplate to pieces. The Hurlock dropped, writhing a moment in the mess of its own blood on the stone floor, and stilled.

Silence. Fane took a moment to breathe, heartbeat so loud she could hear it thundering in her ears. It wasn’t often a creature could make her lose her footing so entirely. Thank the Maker Nathaniel had noticed in time. She turned around, looking to her companions, and found them alarmed, but ultimately alright. Nathaniel was bleeding from a shallow cut on his upper arm and Anders had already moved in to examine it. In the corner opposite them, the charred corpse of an Emissary lay face-down on the stone and Fane noticed for the first time that the room smelled of rotted meat. Another creature was slumped in front of the door they’d come in, arrows sticking out of its face, chest, and left arm like a horrible pincushion.

“Are you alright?” Fane asked, crossing the room to join them. She watched as Anders sealed the wound on Nathaniel’s arm with a very precise and practiced burst of magic, the flesh knitting back together as though it had never separated to begin with.

“Fine now,” Nathaniel said, rubbing at the blood which carved three neat trails down to the top of his glove. “And you? That was a close call.”

“I’m fine,” Fane said with certainty. As an afterthought she added, “Thank you.”

Nathaniel met her eyes and held them, as though to say, _You’re welcome_. Fane ignored the way the back of her neck prickled again, this time for an entirely different reason.

“Never a dull moment,” Anders breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped back. He grabbed his staff from where he’d propped it against the wall and tapped it against the floor. “I knew Howe was a bastard, but keeping darkspawn as pets? Man’s worse than the Archdemon.”

Fane sheathed her sword, but kept her shield in hand, knowing she was better off erring on the side of caution. The room they were now in had a door on each wall and it would be best if they investigated all of them, she decided. Better to waste time than leave a darkspawn to escape.

“He wasn’t keeping darkspawn as pets,” Nathaniel half-heartedly groused. Fane only wondered why he’d dignified Anders with a response at all. “There has to be an entrance to the Deep Roads here somewhere.”

Picking a door at random, Fane headed into what appeared to be a small study. A series of loaded bookshelves lined the walls, interrupted only by a desk and a large statue of Andraste at the far end. The torches were already lit, and Fane realized with a chill that the same had been true of the last room. Had the darkspawn lit them? Or somebody else? Nathaniel walked past her and began to rifle through the stacks of papers atop the desk.

Fane and Anders headed towards the opposite end of the room to examine the statue.

Anders whistled softly. “Who would’ve thought Andraste would be such a looker?”

“It’s a statue,” Fane deadpanned. A small engraved plaque rested at its feet: _Andraste was bathed in flame before the Maker’s eyes._

A strange choice. She wondered why that particular piece of the Chant had been chosen for the statue, then looked at the burning torch situated next to it. It didn’t look removable like the others. On a hunch, she reached up and pulled it forward, grinning when she felt something mechanical begin to rumble deep within the wall. To her right, a bookcase swung forward to reveal a small nook obscured in shadow.

“Well isn’t that useful,” Anders said.

Fane stepped inside, finding only a long wooden chest. She propped the heavy lid against the wall and began rifling through its contents: a few pieces of jewelry, a bundle of letters, a group of bottles containing various salves and potions, a box containing some twenty sovereigns, and, mysteriously, what looked to be a broken bow. The careful curvature of the heartwood was unmistakable, but no string united the ends. The Howe crest was seared into the wood of the lower limb, right in the center of its delicate arch. She lifted it carefully out of the chest, so as not to damage it, and joined Nathaniel where he was still occupied at the desk, reading what looked like a letter.

“I believe this belongs to your family,” Fane said, drawing his attention.

He looked up from his reading with a frown, but his eyebrows raised slightly as he took the bow from her hands and passed her the letter to her in exchange. A grin like none she’d ever seen broke across the man’s face before she could so much as glance at what it said. He looked like a child who had discovered buried treasure and she couldn’t help a hesitant smile in return.

“This is my great-grandfather’s bow,” Nathaniel said, thumbing the crest burned into the wood. “The family bow. It was made during the Exalted Marches. I always wondered where it went, but I never thought I’d actually find it.”

“The great-grandfather who was a Grey Warden?” she asked. He nodded, running his hands along its length. Even after spending years in the damp and musty basement, it didn’t seem as though it had warped or weakened in the slightest. She frowned. “Shame it’s broken.”

“Not broken,” Nathaniel shook his head, smile widening even further. “There’s an enchantment that only a Howe can activate.”

He stripped off his glove and touched the seal gingerly. Fane’s lips parted in surprise as it began to softly glow, and suddenly the string appeared like a thin beam of light. Nathaniel tugged at it with his fingers carefully and the bow yielded to his will like it had been waiting all this time for his touch alone.

She watched closely as he gripped the bow in his right hand, fully drawing the magical string with his left while he aimed at an invisible target, testing the weight and resistance. For all that Fane had watched him wield a bow a hundred times, never before had she noticed the truly remarkable swell of his upper arms as he did so, firm muscle honed through more than a decade of practice sweeping soundly into his equally sculpted back and shoulders. An archer’s body, without doubt. She quietly feared that now she had noticed, she would never be able to push the thought from her mind again. As though to purposely worsen matters, his smile still hadn’t faded: bright, pleased beyond measure, a relic of the past. Nathaniel Howe had been united with his great-grandfather’s bow at last.

Maker’s breath.

Fane turned her attention to the letter in her hands, reading over it three or four times before the weight of what it actually said sank in. It was a letter addressed to Howe more than a month prior to the night he’d orchestrated her family’s murder. In it, Howe’s personal guard captain warned that many of his men weren’t pleased with his plan and that they must unite their forces lest someone “inform Cousland.” Her stomach soured instantly. The bastard had been planning her father’s murder long before it ever arrived. A piece of her had figured as much, but to see it on paper was another experience entirely.

“If you needed proof I was wrong,” Nathaniel said, wonder replaced by an unfortunate frown, “there it is.”

Fane wasn’t certain how to respond; she got the feeling Nathaniel wasn’t either. She put the letter down on the desk and glanced back at Anders, who was quietly perusing the shelves.

“Remembered I’m here, have you?” the mage teased. “The wonders never cease.”

“We should move on,” she said. No sense dwelling on the subject. Not again. “We can come back for the rest of these things later.”

To her surprise, Nathaniel left his great-grandfather’s bow on the desk and brought along the one he’d already been using instead. It made perfect sense, she supposed, not to risk using an unfamiliar weapon when darkspawn were lurking, but she hadn’t thought his enthusiasm would permit such a thing.

Back in the previous room, a low whine from behind the door directly across from them caught Fane’s attention. It sounded strangely like a mabari. The thought caused her heart to momentarily ache for her own hound, killed during the battle at Denerim. At the time, she still hadn’t been certain of Fergus’s survival. Losing Scoundrel had been like losing the final member of her family, though urgency hadn’t permitted her even a moment to grieve. Curious, Fane moved closer and pushed the door open, finding a short staircase leading down into a wine cellar with at least two enormous casks. Just around the corner and beyond her immediate line of sight, an emaciated hound lay slumped against the stone, breathing in weak bursts. He was dying. She immediately knelt to stroke his head gently, crooning comfort.

In addition to the obvious hunger—no doubt a product of being trapped in the cellar for weeks—the hound had been wounded terribly. Fane imagined the only reason he clung to life was the scroll bound to his neck. A mabari never died before its duty was served. Fane propped her shield against the wall and untied the twine. The hound whimpered again, weakly butting its head against her hand. She handed the scroll to Nathaniel to read while she stroked the animal’s ears. Anders knelt to examine him as well and for a moment Fane wondered if he might be able to heal him. But hopelessness colored his expression almost instantly.

“The wounds are too severe,” Anders admitted, frowning. “I’m only surprised he lasted this long, poor old boy.”

“Adria,” Nathaniel said suddenly. Fane looked up and blinked in surprise at the horror his face betrayed. “The message is from Adria. She’s been trapped down here ever since the attack.” Nathaniel’s hopeful optimism as he spoke next only served to strengthen Fane’s private concern. “She was like a mother to me. We have to find her!”

“Adria?” Anders asked.

“Our governess,” Nathaniel explained, “when I was a child.”

Fane felt as though she vaguely remembered the woman herself, and her heart sank at the thought. She didn’t want to be the person to tell Nathaniel that Adria was likely dead. No one had so much as informed her of the _possibility_ people may be trapped in the cellar. If that were the case, no doubt she would have gotten around to solving the issue faster. But as it stood, anyone still trapped had been in the basement for more than a month. She supposed there was a small chance that Howe had stored enough food and drink to last, but with the darkspawn around, survival was unlikely.

All the same, Fane knew saying such a thing meant cruelty. “If she’s still here, maybe she’s trapped further inside.”

She retrieved her shield and spared one last glance at the hound. She wasn’t happy to leave him, but he seemed more at peace. On the off-chance he was still breathing when they returned, she would have him carried up to the infirmary and would see what could be done to save him.

The basement couldn’t extend much farther, regardless of the keep’s size. The amount of storage above ground made the need for a basement almost negligible, and coupled with the amount of crates Fane had seen haphazardly stacked on shelves and in the corners of every room she’d visited so far, any further caches would cross into the downright bizarre. They passed through the only remaining door in the room where they’d battled the Hurlocks and travelled down another long, hooked hallway, finding a closed door at the opposite end. With every step, the familiar sensation indicating a tainted creature’s presence grew stronger. Fane listened intently, but even so, she couldn’t hear or sense any darkspawn in the immediate area.

“Do you feel that?” Fane asked and looked back over her shoulder at Anders and Nathaniel.

“It isn’t like darkspawn,” Nathaniel agreed. “But there’s something. Be careful.”

Fane reached out and gripped the old iron door handle, prying it open slowly, and winced at the creak of ancient hinges. Inside was what appeared to be a second and far larger dungeon than the one Nathaniel had been contained in, a small number of men and women scattered throughout the unlocked cells.

 _Prisoners_ . _People_ . Alive, after all this time. Overwhelmed by the mere thought, she rushed inside and had only just opened her mouth to ask if they were alright when the question died instantly on her lips. More than a half-dozen skeletal men and women turned and looked her way at once, bloodlust in their eyes. Their cheeks were sunken in, the pits of their eyes ringed black with exhaustion. A number of them were missing patches of flaky gray skin. It was then that Fane noticed the few darkspawn corpses on the dungeon floor, a majority of their flesh seemingly gnawed away. She’d seen this before. _Ghouls_. She watched in horror as they began lumbering awkwardly towards her, stiff and corpse-like.

Unarmed and unarmored, they weren’t much in the way of enemies. Fane brought down more than half of them with a series of clean cuts across their throats, and the rest were quickly dispatched by her companions. She knew from prior experience that those tainted for so long were beyond redemption, but a piece of her regretted their deaths even so. She looked over their corpses, piled close to one another and bleeding languorously. Nine innocent lives, lost. Perhaps if she’d been faster, she could have saved them.

“What was Howe doing with so many prisoners?” Anders wondered.

A good question. All of them wore the clothing of common folk, though Fane supposed the clothes could have been assigned to them by necessity during their imprisonment. But Howe had been dead for half a year and in Denerim for months besides. Could they have really survived down here for so long?

“They aren’t prisoners,” Nathaniel said, tone clipped and obviously grieved. “These were my father’s servants. I recognize some of them.” Oh, _Maker_. No doubt they’d all fled into the basement hoping to escape the darkspawn, only to run into them head-first. “There’s a door leading down here from the kitchens.” Fane scanned the room and spotted a now-collapsed passageway. “They were trapped by the explosion.”

She wasn’t certain what to say. She wasn’t certain there was anything to be said at all.

“Are—” Fane paused to clear her throat, which now felt constricted. “Are any of them Adria?”

“No,” Nathaniel shook his head. “She must be somewhere else.”

Fane stepped gingerly over the bodies. At the head of the room was a hole in the wall, large enough for three men to walk through standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Inside, it seemed there were only the cavernous tunnels of whatever lay beyond. This was the source. She had no doubt.

Pressing onward, she was surprised to find that the cavern was only about as wide and deep as a small bedroom might be, the rest collapsed into nothing more than a heap of massive stones. Fane could sense darkspawn beyond, but there was no way any more could escape. Not until the passage had been reopened. The few darkspawn she’d killed—and the ghouls they’d created—were the only threats the keep currently faced.

“That’s all, then,” Fane said. “We’ve done it.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she spotted something brightly-colored sticking out from behind one of the larger stones. Nathaniel, too, seemed to have noticed it, and she watched as the man rushed ahead of her, then stopped dead and muttered Adria’s name under his breath. Her body, no doubt. Fane could see in his expression that it was already too late.

She stepped forward carefully and joined his side, throat constricting once again when she saw what the stone had obscured. Adria lay dead on her back, long silver hair pooled around her. She wore a bloodied pink dress and purple stockings. A wound cut deep into her chest. The child in Fane recognized her, if only vaguely—had learned a lesson or two from her in the past. Nothing she felt, however, could match the expressionless grief which all but emanated from the man beside her. Nothing in Nathaniel’s eyes betrayed his loss, and yet Fane knew—all too well—what grief looked like in a person unaccustomed to expressing it.

She resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. A part of this, no matter how small, was her fault and she wondered when, if ever, fate would allow her to stop taking the lives of those he cared about.


	3. Delilah

_ 9:31 Dragon, 29 Solace _

The days passed quickly. Fane didn’t avoid Nathaniel, per se, but neither did they cross paths often. She felt they both needed the break from each other, time to process two very different strains of grief. Her thoughts were sorely conflicted. While she understood well that she couldn’t fully blame herself for failing to save people she hadn’t known existed, their deaths still weighed heavy on her heart. Adria, like a mother to Nathaniel, was dead. Fane couldn’t have saved her, as she’d likely died in the early days following the attack, but she found it impossible to fully abdicate responsibility.

As an apology of sorts, she allowed Nathaniel the relief of remaining at the keep while she and the others travelled to Forlorn Cove to negotiate the return of Ser Bensley’s daughter. The girl, thankfully, survived. Her captors did not. Their night spent on the coast was laden by a downpour the likes of which they had never seen, but they rested well knowing they’d done what was right. Fane found comfort in battle.

Yet try as she might, by the time she returned to the keep, Fane could no longer deny how desperately she wanted to speak with Nathaniel. So many things happened in the basement of the keep—not only deaths, but revelations putting to rest any uncertainty about his father’s role in the attack at Highever. All of which culminated in a singular certainty: they needed to talk, and soon.

It was less than a day after her return, observing the training grounds after a quick lunch, that Fane found her chance: Nathaniel stood in the shooting range, practicing with his great-grandfather’s bow. She marveled a second time at the beauty of the weapon, the string like a beam of light, curve elegantly blossoming in either direction where his large hand wrapped tightly around its grip. Standing to the side, she watched for a long moment as he drew the bow fully, aim levelled with perfect grace, and fired at the target ahead of him. The arrow pierced the painted circle right through its center. A perfect hit.

Nathaniel brought the bow down and stared, but didn’t smile. It was as though a perfect bullseye had merely been the expected outcome—anything less would constitute failure. The other men on the range weren’t faring half so well.

“Looks like you’ve adjusted,” Fane said, loudly enough to be heard from where she stood at the outermost edge of the range.

Nathaniel, who hadn’t yet noticed her presence, looked around for a moment before pinpointing her location. He smirked and leaned down to pluck another arrow from his quiver.  “I did say it was made for a Howe.”

Fane watched him draw again, careful and precise, all concentration. The muscles in his upper arms bulged with the resistance as he steadied his aim. Fane mentally chastised herself for noticing. He released the arrow with deft fingers and they both watched as it landed just to the left of his last. The man would never have need of another bow in his life. Satisfied, Nathaniel slung his quiver over his shoulder and crossed the range to join her near the gate.

“You’ve returned safely,” he noticed. “I take it the negotiations went well?”

“Well for us,” she replied, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Not so well for the blighters who kidnapped the poor girl.”

“That tends to be the way of things where you’re involved,” Nathaniel said good-naturedly. Fane huffed a soft laugh and a brief silence extended between them, becoming awkward after a spell. “Did you need anything?”

Right. Shit. Fane spoke carefully. “I wanted to speak with you. About what happened in the basement.”

He sighed, seemingly reluctant, but didn’t deny her the request. She wondered if she’d made a mistake. A number of men in full armor came stalking past them, iron plate jangling loudly. Sword fighting was always a noisy affair.

“Perhaps somewhere else?” he suggested.

She nodded and they set off, Nathaniel leading the way. At midday the keep was bustling with activity, dozens of soldiers in the courtyard and halls alike. Some were on duty; others were enjoying a day off or contributing to the reconstruction efforts. Already there seemed a vast improvement from the keep’s condition when she arrived. Trade had begun to flow. Voldrik would begin reinforcing the walls as soon as her men returned with the stone he needed. Volunteers had arrived from across Ferelden, vowing their service. In time, Fane had no doubt Vigil’s Keep would be restored to its former glory.

Nathaniel took her to one of the staircases leading up to the battlements, navigating the halls like he might easily do so blindfolded. How strange it must be for him, she thought, to see his childhood home reclaimed and renewed, ruled by a Cousland. To be delegated to the barracks while the bed he once slept in nightly sat empty in the family wing.

In the open air, high above the keep proper, Fane’s mind cleared. There would be fewer passers-by to interrupt them and they would be able to speak in relative privacy. A low energy hummed beneath her skin at the thought. Nathaniel led her to a stretch of battlements empty save for the guardsman on duty, overlooking an expanse of farmland dotted by homes and silos. Finally satisfied with their location, he took a seat atop the wall and she was quick to follow, positioning herself a short distance away. The silence seemed heavier for their sudden stillness.

“Alone at last,” Nathaniel prompted. “Now what?”

Fane absent-mindedly picked at a small hole worn into the thigh of her trousers, eyes scanning the expressionless plains of his face. “I was wondering if you were alright.”

He scratched at the slight stubble on his cheek. He seemed as uncomfortable as she was. Perhaps that was a good thing. “Truth be told I half-expected Adria was dead already.” He spoke quietly, the admission obviously a painful one. “Learning the truth was unfortunate, but it came as no great shock.”

Fane understood the sentiment. In the aftermath of the blight, it was safer to assume death than to anticipate survival. So many perished at Highever in a single night, she hadn’t imagined any further deaths could remain. Yet in the months since defeating the Archdemon, names she’d known—names she’d laughed with and called friend—seemed to haunt each and every pyre.

“I’m sorry,” she said, despite knowing the words were senseless. “I don’t remember much of Adria, but she seemed kind.”

“Adria, the servants…” Nathaniel shook his head, gaze lamenting. “They were too often the only bit of kindness in the keep.” His grey eyes turned to the horizon a moment. “If Delilah were alive, I don’t doubt she’d be heartbroken.”

“I should have investigated the cave-in sooner,” Fane said, still absently picking at her trousers. She looked down at the stone beneath her feet. A beetle crawled along the inner edge of the battlements, fat and glossy black.

“It isn’t your fault.” Nathaniel assured her. A bit of vitriol backed his words as he added, “I blame anyone who never questioned their absence, who never thought to look for the bodies after the attack. But not you.” He paused, took a breath. Fane watched him carefully. “Are  _ you _ alright?”

The question surprised her. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not the only one who’s faced grief,” Nathaniel said. When she continued to look at him blankly, he added, “I’ve meant to ask how you’re holding up.”

“I miss my family, if that’s what you mean,” Fane offered. Subconsciously, she reached up and fingered the ring and chain around her neck. She caught Nathaniel’s eyes flickering down to it, briefly. “I was so angry all the time after it happened.” She shook her head, smiling bitterly as she remembered. “Not even Alistair could stand me at times. We had so many spats in those first few days I never thought we’d make it. But learning Fergus was alive helped. Knowing the Cousland name would be carried on.”

“Your brother is a good man,” Nathaniel agreed. “If anyone can restore Highever, it’s him. I’m only sorry you’ve both suffered at the hands of my father.”

And there was that exhaustion in his eyes again, the never-ending frustration of a Fereldan pariah. She captured his gaze and held it, speaking with certainty. “Your father’s actions are not your own, Nathaniel. You’ve proven yourself to be a good man.”

“Sometimes I wonder at that,” he admitted. The slightest brightening of his features, the slightest lift at the corners of his mouth—not quite a smile—betrayed the comfort her words granted him. “But I thank you.”

A breeze stirred the air between them and for a moment they sat in silence, looking over the landscape. If she looked carefully, she could see a number of farmers—small as insects—toiling in their fields. The sound of a nearby door opening caught her attention and she looked up just in time to see a guardsman wander through. When he spotted Fane he nodded in polite acknowledgement and continued on his way.

“Did you read your sister’s letters?” she asked, remembering the way he’d looked at her when she passed the bundle to him in the keep’s basement as they’d made their way out. A small comfort, but an important one. Something to hold on to.

“Yes,” he said. Instead of the expected pleasure, however, a frown suddenly shaped his lips. “Although most of them weren’t written by her.”

Fane tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“My father was intercepting letters addressed to Delilah from a man in Amaranthine,” he replied bitterly. “They were in love. Father couldn’t have her running off to marry a commoner.”

Of course not, she thought, remembering the way he’d hissed his final words at her, weak and bloody following a difficult fight.  _ I deserved  _ **_more_ ** _. _

“You were lucky in that way,” Nathaniel added, pulling her back out of the memory, “Your father allowed you to choose suitors as you pleased. Before I was sent away to the Free Marches, my father pushed me to court every eligible noblewoman from here to Antiva.”

Fane smiled, remembering. Her father had been a good man, but a threatening one when he chose. Where once she had been horrified by the “firm, yet polite” interrogations he subjected her teenaged dalliances to, now she could only feel an overwhelming fondness. Maker, she missed him. But by the looks of the deep knit in Nathaniel’s brow, he wasn’t having similar thoughts. She would have to do something about that.

“As I recall,” Fane said, smirk in place, “he was trying to arrange something between myself and your brother just months before the blight.”

“Father,” Nathaniel all but growled. “You deserve far better than my drunkard of a brother, Maker preserve him.”

“Certainly,” she agreed. “But if I’d been just a bit older, I’ve no doubt he would have tried to arrange something between us, instead.”

She hadn’t meant the words to sound so flirtatious, and yet there it was: a suggestion, hidden deep within, something she hadn’t yet taken the time to consider for herself.

“And that,” he replied with a lingering pause, levelling his cold gray eyes on her in a way that made her suppress a shiver, “is no doubt an offer I might have pursued.”

_ Maker’s breath. _

“You assume I wouldn’t have rejected the offer immediately,” Fane retaliated, swallowing the awkward tension now building in her chest in favor of false haughtiness.

“My loss.”

Positive she’d officially turned red as an apple, Fane decided the conversation needed to move in a distinctly less dangerous direction when the door opened yet again and an older elven man carrying a shovel and two rakes lumbered past them. Nathaniel’s attention had only just turned to them man when he suddenly stood, face betraying a myriad of emotions.

“Samuel! Is that you?”

The old man turned around, resting his tools at his feet with a clatter. His face lit up in joy. “Maker’s breath! If it isn’t little Nate! I’d know that face anywhere.”

Fane couldn’t properly express the small comfort which overwhelmed her then, knowing at least one person Nathaniel had known survived the blight.

“I am overjoyed that you still live.” Nathaniel admitted and moved closer to him, looking as close to pure happiness as a man so unrelentingly serious possibly could. All the same, his features fell almost instantly. “I suppose you’ve heard about the others?”

“Knew some of those people forty years,” Samuel frowned. “Such a waste.” Fane wondered where he’d hidden during the attack when it occurred to her that perhaps he’d stayed and helped fight. The man shook his despair off like a thin layer of dust. “What are you doing back in the keep, son? I’d pegged you for dead.”

“It’s a long story and I will gladly tell it to you another time, but…” Urgency crept into Nathaniel’s voice. Fane noticed for the first time how something had begun to worry away at him. “Please. Can you tell me how my brother died? And my sister? I was in the Free Marches.”

It hadn’t even occurred to her that perhaps Nathaniel might not even know how his siblings died. For all that she lamented the deaths of her family, at least she’d been gifted with certainty—a cause of death, a killer to mark. Without that… She wasn’t certain how she might have fared.

Confusion swept over the man’s face. “Your brother died in the war. But Lady Delilah… Don’t you know?” Nathaniel stared at him blankly. “She isn’t dead, son. Last I heard she married a shop-keep in Amaranthine.”

Surprisingly, Nathaniel turned to look at  _ Fane _ , pleasure written plainly across his features. “Did you hear that? My sister’s alive!”

“That’s wonderful,” Fane stammered, earnestly. “But why did you think she was dead?”

“Father sent word about my mother before the blight,” Nathaniel said. “And I’d heard that my brother was dead. I guess I just assumed—” He paused, thinking for a moment. “The man who wrote her letters—Albert.  _ He _ was a shop-keep. Can we ask around the shops, next time we’re in Amaranthine?”

“Yes,” Fane said, the faint glimmer of his enthusiasm infectious. “Of course we can.”

Nathaniel turned back to the elf, sudden energy all but radiating from his stance. “Samuel, you have relieved me of a sore burden.  _ Thank you _ .”

He extended a hand and Samuel took it, shaking firmly.

“If that’s the case, I’m glad,” the elf replied. He picked up his rakes and shovel with another cacophony of clatters. “I’ve got to get back to work. But don’t be a stranger, son. Come by The Crown and Lion for a drink sometime.”

“I will,” Nathaniel promised. Fane could tell he meant it. “Thank you.”

The groundskeeper, smiling now, left and for a moment Nathaniel stood still, lost in deep thought. It was a lot to take in, no doubt. Fane only wished she could reunite them this instant.

“I can hardly believe it,” he marveled at last. “I never imagined—”

“Tomorrow,” Fane assured him, mentally rearranging her initial plans to prepare for a trip to the Blackmarsh. They could put it off another day. In the midst of so much darkness, all of them needed this sort of levity. “Anders and Oghren have been harping about another visit.”

Nathaniel crossed the short distance between them to stand above her, a looming giant from below. She noticed his hand twitch as though he were about to lift it—to touch her—only for the movement to end in sudden restraint. The fluttering in her stomach was much stronger than she anticipated. She looked up and, once again, his now-bright eyes met hers. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

_ 9:31 Dragon, 30 Solace _

“All I’m suggesting is,” Anders continued as he and Nathaniel walked a short distance ahead of Fane in Amaranthine the next day, “a quick tumble might do you some good. Loosen you up, and all that.”

Anders punctuated the statement with a very pointed look back over his shoulder—complete with a flaming  _ wink _ in her direction, no less—and Fane resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. Anders knew her secret and flirting openly with Nathaniel was his way of teasing her about it. She’d been blushing nothing short of scarlet for the last mile of their journey. Much longer and she may well stop dead and demand Velanna light her on fire. Which was tragic, really. It was usually so  _ fun _ to see Anders take the ever-serious archer down a peg.

Now she simply suppressed a very loud, very ugly groan in the same moment Nathaniel gritted out a response. “Thank you, Anders, but I’ll have to decline.”

“Alright, alright,” the mage said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Just remember if you change your mind and want someone to oil your bow, you needn’t look any further.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword, Anders,” Fane shouted, giving in at long last. “I can hear every word you’re saying!”

“Yes,” Nathaniel piggy-backed on her embarrassment, suddenly surging ahead to stand atop the staircase leading down into the market and scan the crowd for his sister. “The Commander can  _ hear you _ .”

A brief silence fell between them and Anders turned around, unsurprisingly grinning from ear to ear in self-satisfaction. Fane halted where they stood next to a pen of chickens, pecking at the muddy Fereldan soil. She took the moment to settle, somewhat, pleased the worst had seemingly passed, when Anders took it upon himself to prove that it decidedly hadn’t. She spared a glance at Velanna in the hopes of some sort of intervention, but the elf seemed detached at best, no doubt lamenting the presence of so many humans in one location.

“I was wondering how long that would take,” Anders said, laughter in his voice. Fane watched Nathaniel head down the staircase, disappearing from sight. “You held up admirably, Commander.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Fane replied in a clipped tone, turning her attention to the still-beaming mage. Anders merely stared back at her with knowing eyes.

“You’re sweet on the archer.”

Fane turned her gaze, shocked that now even Velanna seemed to have joined in on the fun.  _ Maker _ . Had she really been so obvious? Or was Anders simply as clever—and loose-lipped—as he seemed?

“No worries,” Anders agreed in a hushed voice, still half-laughing. “He’s all yours.” Fane decided she’d had quite enough and folded her arms across her chest so petulantly she put her teenaged self to shame. “And if you want my humble opinion—”

“I do  _ not _ ,” she said plainly.

“It’s rather obscenely mutual.”

She remembered, suddenly, the way Fergus had taunted her upon discovering she had a crush on Bann Haral’s boy when she was twelve. Just as relentless, just as self-satisfied. Just as encouraging, despite the fact. With a sudden burst of affection for the mage she decided any real frustration was senseless, but chose to taunt him back nonetheless.

“Don’t forget I’ve command over the dungeons as well,” she warned without heat. Anders seemed unimpressed. “Just one word and you’ll be eating slop and sleeping on stone for a week.”

“You’re adorable,” he crooned as though he was speaking to his cat. “Like a virgin blushing on her wedding night.”

“Leave the poor girl alone, Anders,” Velanna warned. Fane privately reminded herself to thank her later. “She can’t help it if she’s hopeless.”

Or perhaps  _ not _ . Heaving a small sigh, she shouldered past them and descended the stairs into the marketplace, the bark of Anders’ laughter following her as she went. She found Nathaniel at their foot, looking over the crowd. The market wasn’t incredibly busy, but there were enough people present to make picking out the face of a particular woman difficult. To make matters worse, Nathaniel likely hadn’t seen Delilah since she was a teenager.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” the man admitted as she joined his side.

Fane knew his hesitation had to be rooted in something more. Asking around the marketplace was logical enough. He likely even had the name of Delilah’s husband, or at the very least someone who may know her whereabouts. Perhaps his sudden indecision had to do with the weight of what their reunion might mean. Delilah would no doubt set the record straight about their father in a way Fane decidedly couldn’t. For all that Nathaniel had come to accept his father’s role during the blight, she knew he was still sorely conflicted, whether he’d admit it or not.

“Albert, right?” she recalled in an attempt to spur him to action.

“Yes,” Nathaniel nodded. “Right.”

The two of them set about investigating the marketplace, asking the other shop-keeps where they might find the man. They learned he sold salves, poultices, and potions, but frustratingly, no one knew where he was that particular day. The stall where he would usually sell his wares was empty. Just their luck.

“Looking for Albert?” a voice from behind them said. Fane turned around to find a rather large man standing with his meaty arms folded across his chest. He wore an apron, but didn’t appear to belong to any stall in particular. “He’s out of town for the day to restock. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“We’re trying to contact his wife,” Nathaniel admitted, thumbs absent-mindedly worrying the edges of his belt. “Do you know where they live?”

The man, who introduced himself as Kendrick, directed them deeper into town with a series of useful directions indicating how to navigate the narrow, winding inner-city streets. Fane thanked him and—as people so often did—Kendrick encouraged her to drop by again if she was ever looking for extra work. Apparently Amaranthine’s market was two disasters shy of falling apart at the seams. She promised she would look into it and they set off.

Delilah didn’t live in the slums, but neither were the inner workings of Amaranthine particularly stunning. Houses stood high and were crowded close together, clotheslines crisscrossing every street. Some homes, in an attempt at beautification, had flower boxes filled with bright blooms. Others bore front doors and windowsills with flaking paint of various colors. They wove in and out of children playing ball who screamed when their kicks flew too close to windows, and soon enough they were at Delilah’s doorstep. Nathaniel hesitated before knocking. With some doubt of her own, Fane gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. She would remain until she knew for certain they’d found the right place, she decided, and then she would leave Nathaniel to speak with his sister in private. This wasn’t her affair.

Nathaniel knocked and stepped back. Down the street, a couple of children were trying and failing to fly a kite. Nearby, an old woman leaned out the second floor window of her home to pin a weathered dress to the clothesline. Just when it was beginning to seem no one would answer, the door swung inward.

Delilah Howe. There was no doubting it was her. The same coal black hair cut to her chin, the same prominent nose, softened somewhat more femininely than her brother’s. She gasped, covering her mouth, then flung herself at Nathaniel in a crushing hug.

“You’re alive!” the girl shouted. Nathaniel gathered her in his arms, his smile tinged with relief and awash with sorrow. “I can’t believe it!” She released her hold, falling back a short distance to scan his face. “Oh, brother. I’d feared the worst.”

“As did I.” A silence passed between them as they marveled at the sight of each other for a long moment. The years had changed Delilah: she’d grown into a petite young woman, a few inches shorter than Fane’s own modest height, making her look dwarfish next to her brother. A tinge of makeup colored her eyes and lips, her cotton dress different from the silk she’d grown up in and yet so very flattering all the same. She glowed like the morning sun. At last Nathaniel said, “You’re married.”

“I am.” Fane could tell from the way she beamed with the admission that she loved the man dearly. They dropped into enthusiastic silence before surging into yet another embrace and Fane almost laughed. Delilah pulled back after a moment and urged him through the door. “Come in!”

Understandably, it seemed she hadn’t actually noticed Fane, and so Fane lingered in the still-open doorway, not wanting to intrude, while Nathaniel stood, bewildered, near the kitchen table. Delilah headed to the small stove and struck a match to light a fire. Her home was small, but modestly decorated, the first floor seemingly dedicated to the kitchen alone. Pressed flower arrangements much like the ones hanging in Fane’s room at Vigil’s Keep lined one of the walls. She had no doubt both were Delilah’s work.

“I can’t tell you how glad I was to get away from father’s evil,” the girl admitted, busy pouring water into a kettle from a bucket she kept near the wash basin.

Nathaniel seemed to recoil a bit at her words. “Father’s evil? Isn’t that overstating things a little? He made some poor choices, got caught up in politics—”

Delilah shook her head, expression betraying years of knowledge Nathaniel had gone without. “You weren’t here. You didn’t see what he did, Nathaniel. You want the culprit who destroyed our family? It was him. Without question.”

“I… had no idea.” He had the look of a man set adrift. For all that he’d learned in the passing months, it seemed a piece of him still clung to some quiet hope his father might not be the traitor everyone claimed. Perhaps  _ this _ was what he’d feared: certainty enough to fill in the blanks left by his absence.

“Of course you did,” Delilah said, her smile forlorn, yet understanding. “But you always worshipped father. Right from when you were a little boy.”

Delilah set the kettle over the stove to boil and turned, startled when she noticed Fane in the doorway. “Oh! You’ve brought someone with you. Who’s this?”

Fane withered under the sudden attention, feeling awkward and ashamed for having listened in on such an intimate moment. Delilah, though, seemed unaffected.

“Warden Commander Fane Cousland,” Nathaniel answered for her, crossing the room to join them. “I’m a Grey Warden now.”

“A Grey Warden,” Delilah repeated absently before the information caught up with her. “Wait. Fane? You’re  _ the _ Cousland? The Hero of Ferelden?”

“The very same one,” she said. Delilah, excitable as ever, grinned from ear to ear.

“My childhood playmate the Hero of Ferelden,” the girl said. “The wonders never cease.” For all that Fane wanted to linger and see where the conversation would lead—particularly in terms of Arl Howe—she knew she couldn’t steal the moment. “I’m just making some tea. Would you like to join us?”

“Thank you,” Fane shook her head, “but I’ll join you another time. You two deserve to speak alone.” Nathaniel caught her gaze, gratitude apparent. “We’ll be at The Crown and Lion when you’re ready.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Delilah said and smiled sweetly. “It’s been entirely too long, dear friend.”

Fane nodded politely and showed herself out, pulling the door shut behind her. She took a deep breath and released it, surprised by the relief she, herself, felt. Delilah was a hurricane of a woman, eager to discuss a dozen things at once, but perhaps that was precisely what Nathaniel needed. Perhaps this would be enough.

 

* * *

 

_ 9:31 Dragon, 1 August _

Fane breathed in deeply, savoring the fresh air atop the battlements while she still could. They would depart for the Blackmarsh tomorrow to continue their search for Kristoff—a place she had been assured was just as miserable as its name suggested. A rotten, sucking swamp out to the east, known best for the supernatural disturbances which so often occurred there. She was in no hurry to leave, so in the meantime, she granted herself a rare moment of peace. The horses were prepared, enough supplies loaded to last them the week. Her armor and weapons were mended. She had a meeting with the seneschal and several landowners of varying noble shades scheduled in an hour’s time, but beyond that, there was little else to do.

She wasn’t walking the battlements for nothing, however. Nathaniel had been contemplative following his visit with his sister, and as such Fane decided not to pester him about it on the way back from Amaranthine. When she’d woken this morning, he caught her on her way into the dining hall and asked her to meet with him later that day. They needed to talk. She was eager enough to oblige.

She stopped in the same place they’d met just two days prior, looking out over the farmlands and recalling the way he’d looked at her—the way he’d spoken to her. Warmth pooled in her belly and the door behind her opened.

“I owe you another apology,” said a familiar voice without preamble.

She turned around to find the aforementioned archer staring at her and smiled despite the hesitancy in his expression. He drew closer, stopping a short distance away from her.

“This is becoming a pattern, isn’t it?” she asked with a good-natured laugh. “Whatever it is, I’m sure there’s no need.”

“There  _ is _ a need,” Nathaniel insisted. His brows knit together, lips turned in a slight frown. “Delilah said Father  _ deserved _ to die. She told me everything he’d been up to while I was away. I can hardly believe it.” Fane gestured towards the wall and both of them took a seat. He shook his head. “When I returned from the Free Marches, I was certain my family was destroyed for being on the wrong side of the war.” Fane watched him carefully, saw the tension in his shoulders and the grief in his expression. It wasn’t heavy grief. It was the grief of a man who’d learned an unfortunate truth, but not the grief of mourning. An important distinction—a change. “ _ You _ showed me otherwise. It seemed like there was evidence at every turn. But I couldn’t believe—”

He stopped himself and took a moment to examine the leather of his gloves, hands balled into fists. She reached out and took one of his hands in both of her own, failing to recognize the comfortable ease with which she did so. His fingers squeezed hers in gratitude.

“He was your father,” Fane reminded him. “It’s only natural.”

“How could he have changed so much?”

“Perhaps he was never the man you thought he was.”

The words seemed to strike a chord. Delilah said it as well: Nathaniel had spent his life looking to his father as a hero. Changing that perception, realizing it was built on nothing more than pretense… It wouldn’t be easy. But it was a start.

“My father did it to himself,” he said with finality. “No conspiracies; just one stupid, selfish man. I should have known better.”

“And how could you have known?” Fane asked, dismissing the thought out of hand. “You said it, Delilah said it, even I’ve said it: you were away for  _ years _ .”

“You’re right,” he nodded. “But hearing how cruel he was to my sister—to my mother… I wish I’d come back sooner. Before the blight. Perhaps I could have prevented this.”

Fane considered a moment whether or not she should say the words now perched on her tongue. They were dangerous—a final bit of kindling for the pyre. She had never spoken to Nathaniel of the night she killed his father. And yet… she couldn’t help but feel it was precisely what he needed to hear: something to validate his newfound emotions. She dared.

“Do you want to know what your father’s final words were?”

“Do I?” he asked, uncertain.

Probably not, but it was important that he heard them. She traced a leather-clad thumb over the back of Nathaniel’s gloved hand, quietly wishing she could feel the flesh of his fingers pressed against her own. “He looked me in the eyes and he spat. He said, ‘I deserved more.’ He was on the ground, near dead, and even then he was thinking only of what he hadn’t been granted. That kind of greed, that kind of hatred… It’s strong enough to transform a person entirely.”

She watched Nathaniel digest the information, his expression laden with a half-dozen emotions at once. Eventually he said, “So it is.”

They sat in silence for a long while as they both privately contemplated where they would go from here. Things wouldn’t change drastically, and yet it felt as though they already had. Fane looked down at their still-clasped hands and wondered what it meant. Obviously they carried feelings far warmer than friendship for one another, but was acting on such a thing even possible? She was no stranger to trysts, even in the midst of war—Zevran had seen to that, short-lived as their romance had been—but this felt different. Heavier.

_ Maker _ , she knew how to pick them.

But enough of that. When the moment felt right, Fane spoke again, hoping to lighten the mood and direct the subject towards something less unfortunate.

“Was Delilah doing well?” the question was almost senseless, given how euphoric the woman seemed, flitting about her kitchen the previous day. But it was for that very reason Fane chose it. Nathaniel smiled almost instantly, as though he couldn’t help it.

“When all of this is over she wants me to come back and meet her husband,” she noticed the way the word ‘husband’ seemed to sit heavy on his tongue. No doubt seeing his little sister married to a man he’d never even met was strange, but Fane had no doubt Albert was a good man. “She’s due by the spring.”

Married and with child, no less. “That explains the glow.”

“I’ll be an uncle,” he said in gentle awe. “The Howe line continues after all.”

“Strange.”

“Strange indeed,” he repeated, and his fingers squeezed her own again. “She also demanded I bring you to visit. She could hardly believe it was you.”

“It  _ has _ been years,” she agreed. She’d like to see Delilah again; it’d been far too long. “I hardly recognized her, either.”

A small company of guardsmen passed by, chainmail rattling. Suddenly reminded of her meeting with the seneschal, Fane privately lamented the fact that she needed to head out soon. While she supposed she was free to be as late as she liked, it wasn’t exactly proper decorum. No doubt they’d have plenty of time to converse on their way to the Blackmarsh.

“Do you need to go?” Nathaniel asked, seeming to sense her energy.

“Yes,” she nodded, eyes rolling back a bit. “A series of extremely interesting conversations about land ownership and entitlements are waiting for me.”

“The very reason I planned to join the military instead.” Sudden hesitancy crept into Nathaniel’s posture as he seemed to consider something.

Fane waited a moment, but when he didn’t speak, she prompted him. “What is it?”

“There’s one last thing I want to say,” Nathaniel piled his free hand on top of her own, where they still sat loosely clutching his between them. His gaze unflinchingly matched hers. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Commander. You didn’t have to offer me a second chance. Or a place among the Wardens. But you did. And I’m proud to fight at your side.”

In his sentiment she recognized an echo of something just beyond the edges of her memory. Words she’d heard spoken once, a lifetime ago. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, dispelling the tension with a gentle huff. “You can call me Fane in private, Nathaniel.”

“Fane,” he repeated, lips all but caressing the word.

Heat flooded her body as she stood, reluctantly releasing his hands, and stared down at him with open affection. As she turned to leave, she could feel his eyes follow her all the way.


	4. The Blackmarsh

_ 9:31 Dragon, 14 August _

The Blackmarsh was, somewhat miraculously,  _ worse _ than its name and the tales had led Fane to believe. Where she’d expected knee-high mud reeking of death canopied beneath cloudy skies and the uneasy echoes of a village long since abandoned, she found precisely that and still more: withered trees, knotted together with branches grasping talon-like at the skies and enough burrs, brambles, and jagged thorns to draw blood with every last step. It was, without prevarication, the most wicked, unsightly place her eyes had ever lain witness to.

The lonely call of a single owl echoed in the distance and they dismounted their horses in a small clearing at the marsh’s outer edge. The scouts had done all they could to locate an alternative path, but navigating on foot seemed to be the only option short of battling the jagged, rocky coast up-river. The Blackmarsh had grown fortress-like in its isolation following the rebellion.

Fane was surprised to see Velanna shudder slightly as their company passed beneath a pair of trees whose branches had twisted together into a natural awning, paving their way into the dark spectacle beyond. Her skin prickled beneath her armor, her face burning with the cold.

“The veil is thin here,” the elf warned, voice steady and staff in hand. “Spirits move more easily in places like this. We should be cautious.”

Fane threw a glance back at the rest of the company. Each of them had their weapons drawn, ready to strike with a single word. Oghren looked particularly wide-eyed. If Fane had it in her, she might have teased him a bit for the fact. But truth be told, she was feeling rather wide-eyed, herself. It wasn’t simply the look of the Blackmarsh. Something in the air was wrong. She’d never been an apt student when it came to studies concerning magic or the veil—the blood of mages was kept from noble lines with an almost surgical precision, after all—but even her limited knowledge told her that the way the skies here seemed to waver while simultaneously remaining perfectly still was the very definition of unnatural. Nathaniel nocked an arrow in his great-grandfather’s bow. They set off.

Progress was almost unbearably slow. Fane and Oghren worked together to carve a trail through the brambles which had long-since overtaken the footpath once leading to the village. Velanna attempted several spells, hoping to part the stubborn foliage more easily, but nothing seemed to work quite like a blade. By midday, they reached the marsh’s equivalent of a small clearing wide enough for a short rest—a slightly less muddy patch of earth amid stinking waters. Fane’s arms ached; she, the other Wardens, and the scouts had switched off every half hour or so throughout the morning, but for quite some time there appeared to be no end. The land itself proved intent on warding off any trespassers.

“I could do without the stench,” Anders groaned as he fed a small piece of dried beef between his lips. They’d gathered for the moment on a small outcropping of rocks, sharing around jerky and stiff slices of cheese. “It’s put me almost entirely off my lunch.”

“Shockingly, I’ve never visited a bog that smelled of daisies,” Fane deadpanned.

Anders didn’t glare, per se, but his response was humorless. “Could be a bit more pleasant all the same, though, couldn’t it?” For a moment he surveyed the landscape around them. It was far too dim for midday. “It’s all in the name:  _ Blackmarsh _ .”

“And what would you suggest it be called instead?” Nathaniel asked from where he sat a short distance away, otherwise reticent.

“You’d only have to change the first half to something cuter,” Anders began. “Maybe—”

A low growl from down the path stopped the mage short. Fane leapt up, drawing her sword instinctively, and spotted the source: a pack of wolves was hunched several paces away, their fangs bared. The steady path they’d carved through the marsh had undoubtedly opened the potential for attack. The pack’s alpha took several calculating steps in her direction and hunkered low to growl again. There were three of them; not the greatest threat, but they could prove a problem if they weren’t dispatched quickly.

Just as the alpha leapt, rushing Fane, she heard a crack of lightning distinctly  _ not _ directed at the wolves ahead of her. She swung her sword in a wide arc, but missed the alpha when it suddenly lunged and bit down hard on her calf. Following the sudden shock of pain, she took advantage of the wolf’s proximity and kicked it hard in the chest. It yelped, jaws setting her flesh free, and was stunned long enough for her to bring her sword down across the back of its neck. The felled creature slumped onto the path as an arrow shot dangerously close to her right arm and lodged in the ribs of the wolf Oghren was currently keeping occupied.

Fane had just enough time to find her bearings: a veritable hoard of wolves—far more than the initial three—had descended upon them. Maker only knew where they’d all come from. Perhaps they were closer to the village than they dared hope.

She rushed to stop the wolf which had turned its eyes upon Velanna, ramming it hard with her shield mid-pounce. It tumbled to the ground but was quick to regain its footing, and Velanna cast a spell that rooted it in place, allowing Fane to plunge her sword into its back, white steel sinking smoothly into dark fur. She twisted the blade, pulled it from the fresh wound, and had turned her sights on a third wolf when Anders sent a bright purple bolt of lightning at the beast, and another, and another, its charred corpse looking less like a wolf and more like a blackened puddle of fur by the time the last of the shocks had subsided.

Silence followed. Fane surveyed the area, heart thundering. In addition to the four wolves whose demise she’d witnessed with her own eyes, another four lay in the clearing. None lived.

“Is everyone alright?” Fane asked, unaware of her own pain until she heard the breathlessness in her voice.

“Maker-damned wolves,” Anders muttered to himself as he surveyed a large tear in his robes. His head snapped up, dejection plain in his expression, but he looked otherwise unperturbed. “I’m alright.”

“Commander, your leg,” Nathaniel reminded her.

Fane looked down and winced. A neat set of holes punctured in her brown leather boot were ringed with draining blood. Her calf seemed to pulsate now that she’d become aware of it. She tried to take a step towards the outcropping and sit down, but stumbled as sharp pain shot up the length of her calf and only avoided crashing to the ground because Nathaniel caught her by the shoulders. This close, she could see the sweat beaded on his furrowed brow. He steadied her and helped her maneuver carefully to the outcropping.

“Thank you,” she gritted out and sat down to slide off her boot. She found more concern than she’d anticipated in Nathaniel’s expression when she looked up, but he merely nodded and said nothing.

“It shouldn’t be that serious,” Anders assured them. He kneeled in front of her and tugged off her sock. She bit back a groan at the feel of tight cotton dragging across the wound. With an apologetic smile, Anders took care to push up the leg of her trousers somewhat more gingerly. “It’s deep,” he agreed when he’d finished carefully prodding her punctured flesh. “But nothing I can’t fix.”

The cool sweep of healing magic was a welcome relief. She gave Nathaniel a small, reassuring smile and they finished their meal with renewed vigilance. Soon enough, they were ready to continue their plunge towards the village.

“We’ll be coming upon it shortly,” one of the scouts—Jessek, a Fereldan—said. The brambles had thinned enough that navigating around them became preferable to cutting them down, and in the distance, Fane could make out what appeared to be the top of a stone wall amidst the weave of dark branches. They reached the dilapidated gates within the hour.

To call the village a wreck might be a kindness: not a single home had endured the years with dignity. Every last roof had long since caved in and every last wall looked as though standing tall had become too great a burden to bear. The marsh had expanded to swallow nearly half of what its streets once encompassed. Yet it seemed as though the tales of its supernatural demise may hold some truth. While the homes had all but sunken into the earth beneath them, each had a distinctly undisrupted look about it. The more intact ones seemed to include a life’s worth of furniture and belongings which were now in varying states of decay. As though overnight—just as the tales suggested—the entire village disappeared without a trace.

“When I was a little boy,” Nathaniel began, unprompted, and joined Fane’s side as she surveyed the destruction, “my father told me evil magic killed everyone here.”

“Evil magic?” Fane asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought no one knew what happened.”

“No one does,” Nathaniel agreed. “It’s as much of a mystery as it ever was.” He huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “I used to dream of coming to the Blackmarsh and setting things right. Little boy dreams.”

She couldn’t help an endeared smile at that. “And now you’re doing it.”

“So I am.”

A few minutes later they reached the heart of the village and found themselves standing outside the gates to the massive structure Fane had been wondering at since they arrived. A mansion, it seemed, though not nearly so dilapidated as the homes surrounding it. This came as no surprise. Its walls were stone, an ornate pair of staircases sweeping out from its entrance in either direction. A line of crumbling statues in the overgrown garden bespoke wealth many times that of the dwellings which its imposing form all but loomed over. Its perimeter had been bordered off with tall fence and, even after nearly an age, its gate remained tightly barred. Fane gave it a sharp shove, hoping to break the lock, but had no such luck. They would have to saw their way in if they hoped to progress any farther. In the meantime, Kristoff remained their priority.

All the same, another handful of hours searching for the Warden proved near senseless. Jessek found a promising lead just as the sun was beginning to set, but after a run-in with a small pack of werewolves, few were willing to continue their search into the night, Fane included. They made camp just inside the village’s Eastern gate in an area which appeared to have once been fenced off for livestock or perhaps a small market. They would pick up the trail in the morning.

“Are you afraid, Oghren?” Fane heard Velanna taunt when she emerged from her tent. She’d ducked inside to shed her chest plate and tassets. Her shoulders ached from all the chopping and fighting they’d done throughout the day and her leg had begun to bleed again. It wasn’t uncommon for more serious wounds to do such a thing, but she would need Anders to treat it.

“It isn’t natural,” the dwarf responded gruffly. “I got used to not having a roof over my head. But that,” he jabbed a stiff finger skyward, “ain’t something I’m getting used to.”

Fane stared up at the wavering skies. The oddity was more apparent in the dark. The night seemed to shimmer green where the veil was particularly weak. Whatever happened here, the fade was almost certainly linked and while they may yet find Kristoff, a piece of her doubted the Blackmarsh could ever be restored entirely.

Fane made her way over to the fire. Her leg wasn’t nearly so painful as it was shortly after the bite, but it still caused her to hobble in discomfort. She took a seat next to Anders and took off her boot, then lifted the leg of her trousers to show off the weeping wound. Anders frowned. “Mind patching me up one more time?”

The mage lifted her leg into his lap and held his hands over the bite, unleashing a precise burst of cool magic into her flesh. Fane watched as it knit neatly back together and the sting dissipated. She wasn’t certain healing magic would ever cease to amaze her.

“Another in the morning should do the trick,” Anders said with all the certainty of a long-time healer. He gently dropped her foot back to the ground. “But wake me if it opens again.”

She nodded. The fire was the camp’s sole ward against the damp chill, yet Nathaniel was nowhere to be found. Fane traced the soft pink flesh over the closed bite absentmindedly.

“He’s got first watch outside the Eastern gate,” Anders seemed to read her mind. She glanced up at him and glared when she noticed his smug grin.

“I didn’t ask.”

An owl hooted somewhere nearby. Anders blinked at her and looked strangely disappointed. “Don’t tell me you two still haven’t—”

“No, Anders.” Fane cut him off and tugged her boot back onto her foot. Judging by the smarmy grin she could all but taste radiating from the man beside her, she could tell her tone bordered on nothing short of comically defensive. “Nothing has changed in the last  _ four days _ .”

“Maker’s breath,” the mage groaned loudly. Fane noticed Velanna look up from where she was writing in the journal Fane had given her. The elf shook her head in irritation and her attention quickly drifted away again. “Do something about it or I’ll bed the man myself.”

Fane yanked Anders’ ponytail in playful retaliation and grinned at his genuine shock. She didn’t give him a chance to voice his mock-outrage. “Get some rest.”

“Tell you what,” Anders said, climbing to his feet. “I’ll do that, so long as you forego some.”

Fane didn’t miss his suggestive wink.

She stubbornly lingered at the fire after Anders left for his shared tent and convened with Jessek and the other scout—a red-headed Marcher named Mina—about tomorrow’s plans. But eventually, like the fool she was, Fane made her way towards the Eastern gate. Nathaniel spotted her immediately from a short way down the path and jerked his head in invitation.

Although the marsh had proven itself an unending chain of horrors throughout the day, its stillness now might nearly be peaceful if it weren’t for the stench. Nathaniel rested with his back against one of the tall black trees and turned his gaze to the wavering sky. A torch burned bright beside him, but beyond that, darkness seemed to stretch outwards for an eternity. Any sounds from the camp were muffled beneath the low creak of toads and crickets.

“Is your leg alright?” Nathaniel asked after a short, soothing silence.

“Fine for now,” Fane said. Her eyes traced the curve of the bow in his hands. The string glowed a dim blue at his touch. “I’ll be healed by morning, Anders thinks.”

Nathaniel nodded. “I’m glad.”

There was no moon to be found in the unnatural sky. Another silence stretched out between them. They’d spent so much time sorting the mysteries of his family that now Fane wasn’t certain how to speak with him about anything else. Yet she found herself craving his presence all the same. What was it she wanted? An old memory crept into her mind of nights like this spent in camp during the Blight, lying on her back and staring up at the stars in lieu of nightmare-ridden slumber. Sometimes Alistair joined her and they allowed the solidarity of burden to drift between them in unspoken waves. Comradery in the strongest degree. But this was different. She reached up to rub at the sore muscles in her right shoulder. Nathaniel had offered so much of himself already. Perhaps it was time she returned the favor.

“I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever start to hate this,” she said suddenly, only realizing the lack of context after the words had left her mouth. Not even  _ she _ was certain precisely what she meant. She watched a moth flutter around the flame of the torch, transfixed yet cautious enough to never stray too far into its heat. At last she settled on: “Constant adventures. Never sleeping in the same place.”

“You never seemed the type to settle down,” Nathaniel noted. Fane watched his eyes flicker questioningly in her direction.

“I’m not,” she agreed.

Even before the Blight, she’d ached for something more. She spent half her days furious that her father allowed her to train as a warrior, then made it a point to deny her every opportunity to use her hard-won skills. The Blight wrought destruction and horrors she never could have anticipated, but she would be lying if she claimed it hadn’t granted her precisely what she’d always wanted—albeit in the most extreme form. She felt as though Nathaniel could understand that: the heir-apparent, all but exiled by his family when he refused his inheritance.

“Tell me about the Blight,” Nathaniel said, seeming to pick up on her desire and offering an open invitation. She stopped rubbing at her shoulder and stared at him, surprised by the way the flickering torchlight seemed to soften his features.

“What do you want to know?"

He lifted his shoulders. “Anything you’re willing to share.”

They spoke for the duration of his watch. Thinking of Anders’ magic still tingling over her leg, she told him about the Circle. She relayed the abominations she’d witnessed within and her decision to save the remaining mages regardless. She described how they’d fought bravely at her side when it came time to fell the Archdemon and how too many were lost when the battle was won. Nathaniel listened with open interest and responded in kind. He’d grown close with a Circle mage during his time in the Free Marches. In Kirkwall, he said, things were different; by no means better, but different. It was the first time Fane could properly recall talk drifting so easily between them—freed, if only briefly, from the weight of their losses.

Anders was right. Eventually they would need to address the unspoken words hanging between them and decide what they planned to do. But for now, this was enough.

When Mina arrived to relieve Nathaniel from duty, the girl seemed surprised to find Fane at his side. She offered a smart salute and drew her blades. Fane and Nathaniel made their way back into the village and lingered for a moment outside Fane’s tent. A new fondness came alive within her. Her chest swelled gently with its warmth.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

Nathaniel reached out and took one of her hands in his own—just for a moment—brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “Goodnight.”

It was a long while before her heart’s frantic rhythm stilled enough to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_ 9:31 Dragon, 15 August _

“What in Andraste’s name is  _ that _ ?”

As the trail led them closer and closer to the shore of the Amaranthine ocean, Fane discovered a growing darkspawn presence sounding like an alarm in the back of her mind. This, she assumed, must be why Kristoff had travelled to the Blackmarsh in the first place. But what they stared at now looked nothing like any kind of darkspawn Fane had ever encountered.

A larvae-like creature with an almost human face lay dead in the center of the path. Its legs curled in on its carapace like miniature javelins and its soft underbelly had been bisected from throat to end by the swift flick of a blade. The thick black pool of blood in which it lay had long-since sunken into the earth, but its mere presence radiated the sort of wickedness Fane associated solely with the darkspawn. Whatever it was, she had no doubt of its origin.

“You ever seen anything like this, Commander?” Oghren asked and squinted at her as though she held all the answers. She shook her head, but made no further comment. Something was wrong. She needed to focus.

She stepped over the creature and made her way down the path with her sword drawn and shield at the ready. The darkspawn presence prickled strongly at the back of her neck. No doubt the others felt it as well. Here the path spiraled around them like a spider-web, weaving in and out of brambles and trees seemingly at random, pools of thick, stagnant water attracting insects that nipped at their faces and necks. There was no telling where the creature had come from, but Fane followed her intuition, drawing closer to the shore.

The path hooked around an outcropping of rocks taller than any of them. Fane’s blood ran cold when the area behind it came into sight. Dozens of white, insect-like pods had been built against the rocks. Some were empty. Others contained sacs which looked nothing short of ready to burst. A veritable regiment had been here once, but the ground among them was littered with still more larval corpses. At least six or seven, at a first glance, and more up ahead. Kristoff’s work, she had no doubt. Fane could make out the sound of running water in the distance.

“Move carefully,” Fane cautioned the company behind her. “We don’t want any of these on our backs if we can help it.”

They navigated through the area, moving past the pods as gingerly as they could. Some wriggled with the creatures still gestating inside and the sacs occasionally bulged when sharp legs pressed against them. It took everything Fane had to suppress a yelp when one at long last burst, and she rammed her sword into the pod as swiftly as she could, stopping the creature before it had even begun to worm its way out. Another scare came moments later as one of the creatures came skittering from the brush, rearing back and exposing its underbelly just in time for Nathaniel to puncture it with three rapid-fire arrows.

Before they left the Blackmarsh, Fane would order every last one of the pods burned.

A bit more maneuvering and they were blessedly freed of any further larvae. A man clad in a Warden’s uniform came into view lying face-down in a nearby clearing. It could only be Kristoff. Fane stepped closer and turned the corpse over gently. The heavy wound to his stomach had almost certainly been the cause of his death. His pale skin and sunken cheeks told her it hadn’t occurred recently, yet any rapid decay hadn’t yet set in. She wondered how that could be.

“Commander!”

Fane wasn’t certain who shouted, but she looked up just in time to find a darkspawn dropping into sight from a small ledge nearby, wearing dark chainmail and a red hood. Its pale, shriveled skin and clouded eyes emphasized the horrid brown spread of its fanged mouth and its nose was little more than two holes set in the center of its face. She’d seen a creature like this before on the battlements during her first night at Vigil’s Keep. She rose to her feet and drew her sword. Two Hurlocks waited on the ledge above, but made no move to attack.

“It is just as the Mother told it to me,” the creature said, speaking with the same strange inflection and low, rumbling tone as its predecessor. “We have lured him to this place and slain him. And you are coming to us. The Mother, she was right. The Mother is always right.”

“Who is this Mother?” Fane asked, standing her ground. “Why did she have you lure us here?”

“The Mother is most clever,” the darkspawn chuckled. The laugh rattled in its chest like infection. “Oh yes. Most clever.” The creature took a step forward and stood so close Fane could feel the heat rolling in unnatural waves from its body. One false move and she would ram her blade into its gut. “I here before you am the First, and I am bringing to you a message. The Mother, she is not permitting you to further  _ his  _ plan. So she is sending to you a gift.”

Fane had just parted her lips to ask whose plan when the creature thrust out its hand between them and summoned an orb of magic. There was no time to react. The green and black light of the orb immediately expanded and swallowed her whole, sitting heavy on her chest, suffocating her as her mind seemed to separate from her body and drift into the abyss surrounding her. Her head pounded and she gasped as hard as she could, like a woman drowning and desperate for air.

Then, all at once, she woke.


	5. Beyond the Veil

_ 9:31 Dragon, Unknown _

Fane was on her hands and knees, staring at the soft soil beneath them. But she needn’t look up to know where she was. She had been here before: the Fade. There was a song here—something she could never quite make out. But its hollow ringing, like the wind in a drum, carried with it a familiarity she felt on an ancient level, as though its melody had been heard by the ancestors of her ancestors, tracing all the way back to the corruption of the Golden City.

“No!” roared a familiar, low voice. Fane’s head jerked upwards just in time to spot the darkspawn who’d brought her here clambering to its feet. She rose unsteadily as well, drawing her sword and shield. The creature paid her no mind. “We have come to the Fade as well? It cannot be this! The Mother… she has deceived me! I am betrayed!”

A fury swelled in Fane’s chest, burning hot as coals. She rushed the creature in the hopes of felling it, but gasped when she collided with its barrier and was knocked back, sprawling across the ground. Her sword spun out of hand and landed a short distance away.

“The First is not to be expendable,” the darkspawn snarled. “To you or the Mother. I will be leaving you to the Children and I will be finding my own path back into the world.”

The Children of which he spoke scuttled from the brush surrounding her and hissed monstrously as they reared for attack: more of the larvae she’d fought so hard to avoid only minutes ago. Fane scrambled for her sword in a panic and rose to her feet in time to spot her companions gaining their own bearings. Anders, Velanna, and Oghren looked notably dazed, but were nonetheless ready for battle.

Velanna reared back her staff and the spell work began. Fane whipped around just in time to block a blow from one of the Children, knocking it onto its back and thrusting her sword into its belly. To her surprise, however, when she pulled her blade out of the wound the creature flipped over and moved to strike her once more, persistent despite the trail of blood pooling beneath it. Two more precise blows to its childlike face sent it into convulsive tremors and it curled in on itself before going still. Several paces ahead, a chasm opened to swallow one of the creatures, the earth around it snapping shut and crushing it to a bloody pulp.

Fane hurried to incept one of the creatures before it could reach the mages and brought her sword down hard across its back. The blade bounced away, repelled by the iron-like strength of its carapace. But the blow was enough to capture the creature’s attention. As it began the awkward process of turning to face her, Fane hooked her boot between two of its legs and flipped it over with a kick, slitting its underbelly down the middle and leaving it to bleed to death.

“More incoming!” Oghren shouted.

The initial five were dead by Fane’s admittedly distracted count, yet it seemed still more had arrived while her back was turned. A lightning spell crackled nearby and shocked one of the creatures as she rushed past. She flung her blade across the faces of three descending upon her at once, parting the flesh but doing little in the way of stopping their advances. The centermost Child rose to strike at her and she hurled her shield into its chest just as Oghren’s axe came down upon another. The last of the three attempted to bite down on her hip, but her tasset repelled its needling teeth and Fane took the momentary distraction as an opportunity to kick it away. She had just moved to strike when Oghren cleaved the creature at her feet in half, blood spraying thick against his chest-plate. She finished off the last with a swift cleave of her own.

“Is that the all of them?” she asked between heaving gasps for breath.

She spun around and found Velanna and Anders standing tall amidst the corpses of still more larvae. They both looked somewhat startled, but were seemingly unharmed. The speaking darkspawn was nowhere to be seen. Fane collapsed forward at the waist and rested her hands on her knees. Each visit to the Fade made her more lightheaded than the last. The spinning receded gradually.

“Now that that’s over with,” Anders began, sounding breathless as well, “would anyone like to explain to me how a darkspawn just pulled us into the Fade?”

“Wait a second,” Oghren said as he scrutinized his surroundings with a curled lip and furrowed brow. “This is the Fade? Dwarves aren’t supposed to be here!”

Fane paused a moment and looked around as well, eyeing the emerald stretch of sky above them. The area they now stood in looked exactly like the area they’d come from. Notably absent, however, was the curl of dark branches and brambles. Instead, the trees were lush and while the land was still undoubtedly marsh-like, the greenery granted it a far more pleasant atmosphere than the Blackmarsh of reality. Fane could see the village docks and the manor’s peak across the bay. Neither were in visible disrepair.

“We should—” Fane began. She paused when she looked over the faces of her companions, still lost in a mixture of fear and awe at their surroundings. Anders. Velanna. Oghren. That was all of them. Neither Nathaniel nor the scouts were anywhere to be found. Icy dread flooded her chest. “Where are the others?”

“They could have been teleported somewhere else,” Anders suggested after an awkward, shuffling silence. “Further down the path?”

“With magic like this, there’s no guarantee,” Velanna added with an undercurrent of foreboding. “They could be anywhere in the Fade.”

The dread increased ten-fold. The Fade was as vast as Thedas itself and a thousand times more dangerous. There was no reason why the others should have landed any distance from them at all, which only increased the possibility that something had gone horribly wrong. Fane trusted Nathaniel to hold his own and protect the scouts, but one man could only do so much against the forces of all-encompassing magic and a horde of darkspawn.

Andraste preserve them.

Fane forced herself to push her worries to the back of her mind. Losing herself to fear now wouldn’t help anyone. She had to trust that Nathaniel and the scouts would be alright on their own. In the meantime, she needed to take care of the others.

“Let’s head to the village,” Fane suggested after taking a moment to gather herself. “Perhaps we’ll find them there.”

For all that her previous journey to the Fade was a labyrinthine series of horrors and transformations, however, she was surprised to find that this particular section was damn near peaceful by comparison. No walls of fire or locked gates impeded her progress. Instead, the marsh sprawled out in precisely the same layout as its copy in reality, differentiating itself only through being far easier to navigate. They didn’t encounter a single darkspawn, spirit, or demon. It was as though the bleed went both ways: where the Fade corrupted the Blackmarsh in reality, reality salvaged the Blackmarsh in the Fade.

“What do you think about this Mother business?” Oghren groused as they drew closer to the village. “That thing doing experiments out in the woods wasn’t pretty enough to be a woman.”

“I don’t know,” Fane admitted, recalling the sight of the mysterious creature. It’d spoken like some of the other darkspawn, but it was different. Colder. More calculating. Certainly not the mother, but perhaps… “The darkspawn that brought us here mentioned we were furthering someone’s plan. What if there are two separate factions? The Mother and—”

“That creature that took Seranni,” Velanna finished. “But darkspawn don’t fight themselves, do they?”

“Up until recently they didn’t speak, either,” Anders reminded her. “There’s nothing I’d put past the blighters.”

They rounded a small grove of trees and found themselves at long last standing on the opposite end of the bay. Here, the village docks were in perfect repair and Fane could see that the gate leading into the village stood open. All of the homes inside—which had been little more than piles of rubble during their initial visit—now stood proud as they ever had. This was the Fade’s way of showing them the past. But why?

“N-no, milady, I did not forget,” Fane turned around at the sudden, unfamiliar voice and found a young woman rising to her feet from behind one of the nearby boats, as though she’d been hiding just out of sight. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen and wore her hair in long, blonde braids. The girl held up her hands in front of her as if to defend herself. “I merely—” She paused, seemingly listening to some snarled response, and then shouted. “But I would never contradict your ladyship!” The girl stumbled backwards until she was at the bay’s edge. Her voice took on the pleading tone of someone begging for their life. “No, milady! Please! Have mercy!”

All at once the young woman began to levitate and her face snapped skyward, eyes wide as saucers. A scream erupted from her throat, ragged and undoubtedly in pain, echoing into the nothingness above them before she vanished.

Fane all but gaped, chilled to the bone. This place was wicked. This place was wicked, indeed.

“That was a memory,” Anders explained. He looked as rattled as Fane herself felt, clutching his staff in a white-knuckled grip. “The Fade is showing us what happened here.”

“Do you think this ‘mistress’ is the Mother?” Velanna asked. “Maybe that darkspawn was lying and drew us right to her.”

It was certainly a possibility, but Fane couldn’t help feeling that whatever was going on had nothing to do with the darkspawn at all. She shook her head—not in dismissal, but in utter perplexity. The further they descended into the marsh and its history, it seemed, the more complicated the truth became. They would only find answers in the village.

“You’d best be coming up with a plan to get us out of this place, Commander,” Oghren spoke up after a suspiciously long silence. Fane could tell he was trying his best to sound calm. “Whatever’s going on here isn’t something I want to stick around for.”

“Let’s go, then,” she said, waving them all towards the gates. She threw one last glance back at where the girl had been standing, but the patch of earth remained empty.

Another memory appeared as they crossed through the gates. A guard—or perhaps a soldier—stood in the middle of the road and held up a hand as if to halt someone. “Who enters the Blackmarsh?” Fane stopped in her tracks and waited to see what else it might say, but was shocked when she realized the memory’s eyes gazed directly into her own. In sudden frustration, the guardsman repeated himself, “State your business.”

“Is it speaking to  _ us _ ?” Anders marveled.

“I don’t see anyone else here,” the guardsman replied gruffly. Fane could hardly tell beneath the helmet, but he seemed young.

“My companions and I are Grey Wardens,” Fane explained, somewhat awkwardly. Was this how one was meant to speak with a memory? “We’ve been trapped here.”

“Then you’re just as we are,” the guardsman sighed. His shoulders seemed to weigh heavy with the exhaustion of an age. “Stuck in this endless nightmare. We’ve been here so long at her mercy I almost forget what it was like before.”

“Whose mercy?” Fane asked.

The man hesitated, plainly unwilling to answer. Eventually he diverted her question altogether in favor of another topic. “There is a spirit that has come to free us. Perhaps you could help him? If such a thing were possible.” Fane began to insist that he grant them at least a bit more information, but he pointed down the path and refused to look at her. “He’s in the square.”

She gave in. If the man didn’t want to speak, then so be it. The four of them made their way into the village. The streets and neat rows of homes here were in far greater abundance here than in the Blackmarsh of reality. Fane began to realize that the decayed wreck they’d traipsed through just hours earlier was a mere fraction of the expanse the village once encompassed. It was no Amaranthine, but neither was it a mere pothole. The Blackmarsh had once been a bustling port town.

As they walked, they encountered more memories. Most were huddled in corners or gossiping amongst themselves about the mysterious mistress of the village. Some were more violent—like the memory they’d witnessed at the docks. It seemed the woman had been using the village children in some sort of ritual blood magic. For what purpose, Fane could hardly imagine. The citizens had been terrified of her—angry and distraught, but unwilling or unable to face her themselves. There was an air of absolute fealty among them born from fear. As though to defy her meant to spit in the face of death. Fane suddenly understood why the guardsman had been so reluctant to speak of her.

The dull hum of voices grew louder the closer they drew to the square. The spirit-led rebellion, it seemed, had already begun. Fane motioned to her companions and the four of them rushed to witness the spectacle down the path. A group of citizens had gathered at the gates to the manor and were shouting threats in turn. At their helm, a booming, masculine, almost ethereal voice cut through the chaos to rise above the others.

“Your mansion will not protect you, fiend!” it shouted. “Come out and face your crimes!”

“We aren’t afraid of you any longer!” a woman yelled. After another moment of incoherent shouting, her voice rose again. “She hides. We’ll have to break down the gate!”

“Caution, my friends,” the ethereal voice warned. “The baroness has great power within her lair. We rush in at our peril.”

So the baroness was the woman of whom they spoke. Fane gently carved her way through the crowd, pushing past memories which felt more corporeal than she dared allow herself to believe. Many of them shouted at her, but stilled when they realized she was someone they’d never seen before. No doubt they suspected she might bring more help. At the helm of the crowd stood a spirit: it had taken the form of a man wearing full plate, but the way its form opaquely shimmered in gold made its origin unmistakable.

“Who comes now?” the spirit asked. “More minions of the baroness? Or yet more helpless souls she has tormented?”

“Neither,” Fane explained. “We’re Grey Wardens, brought here against our will.”

“I could not say what a ‘Grey Warden’ is,” the spirit admitted, seeming to size them up. “But clearly you are strangers. Perhaps it is a sign.” He surveyed the crowd a moment, then looked back at the gates. “I am Justice. I have watched this place and seethed at the wrongs visited on these poor folk, and now I seek to aid them.”

Justice. A bit on the nose, but Fane supposed that was the way of spirits. The woman beside him looked upon them earnestly. Resignation weighed heavy in her eyes, but the broadsword sheathed on her back proved to Fane she was prepared to fight.

“When we lived in the real world, the baroness ruled over us,” she explained. “She took our children and used their blood to work dark and evil magic.” It was just as Fane had gathered. No wonder the marsh had become so corrupted. Blood magic corrupted the very earth upon which it occurred. “And when we tried to burn down her mansion, she cast a spell that brought our spirits here. We have been trapped ever since, still under her rule.”

Justice shook his head in apparent disdain.

“We’ve got to help them,” Anders said. Fane looked back over her shoulder at him and was surprised to see open revulsion in his eyes. “It’s things like this that give mages a bad name.”

“We have no quarrel with this baroness,” Velanna contradicted coldly. “I suggest we leave these people to their business and move on. Why should we waste our time with these cattle?”

“Taking down the baroness could be path back into the real world,” Fane chastised. Velanna’s detachment had waned in the last month, but it still seemed to crop up in the worst moments. “What else do you propose we do?”

The elf huffed, but said nothing. Fane took that as agreement enough.

“Will you help us in this righteous task?” Justice asked. “Grey Wardens appear to be of the able sort, and thus your aid would be welcome.”

Fane nodded. “We will. Gladly.”

“Then we’ve the numbers to challenge the baroness directly at last,” Justice grandly announced. A cheer went up among the crowd. “Take some time to gather yourselves, my friends. We will storm the gates at sundown.” He turned his focus to two rather burly men standing at the crowd’s edge. “You two. Come with me.”

Fane watched Justice and the two men disappear down the road. A handful of curious others followed in their wake. Looking skyward, she had no idea how long it might be before sunset. The passage of time in the Fade had long been a mystery, but she supposed Justice and the villagers needed to make the necessary preparations and the additional cover of nightfall couldn’t hurt. Stilled for the moment, she surveyed the dispersing crowd for familiar faces and found none. Nathaniel’s continued absence hardly shocked her, but Fane’s heart sank somewhat all the same.

“Have there been any others?” Fane asked the red-haired woman with the broadsword who’d spoken earlier. When she looked at her in confusion, Fane added, “Strangers like us.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman shook her head. “Apart from you and Justice, there’s been no one.” Fane’s expression must’ve visibly changed because the woman went on to ask, “Have you lost someone?”

“There was another Warden and two scouts with us,” Fane explained. “When we were brought here, they vanished. We’re not certain what’s happened to them.”

“My apologies.” The woman dipped into a short bow and her eyes searched Fane’s for a moment. “I can tell you care for them a great deal. I hope they turn up.”

So did Fane. Oghren, unable to keep still, insisted they search the rest of the village for a “quicker way out” and Fane agreed willingly, though for different reasons. They searched the village from end to end, but found only more memories—some static, some active in the way of those in the square. She wondered what caused the distinction. Were some dead and others simply trapped? That couldn’t be. After nearly a hundred years, they would all be dead without question.

“Fane!” Fane immediately turned around. She recognized the low, gravelly tone calling her name. It was Nathaniel’s. Her heart swelled at the thought that he was alive and here, but as she searched the street behind them, she found nothing. “Oghren!” It was closer this time, as though moving towards them, but still she saw nothing. She remained rooted to the spot and listened intently. It had to be his voice. But how? “Anders!”

“Is that Nathaniel?” Anders asked. He looked just as perplexed. “How can that be?”

“Velanna!” his voice was so loud now it seemed to nearly be on top of them and Fane shuddered as an icy chill passed through her. Strangely, the chill itself paused, lingering in one place. As though it, too, sensed her presence.

“Nathaniel?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Is that you?”

There was no response and the chill soon drifted away without calling out again. Fane swallowed thickly. She wasn’t certain what she should make of the encounter. Was Nathaniel in the Fade or out of it? The Blackmarsh was prone to bleeds like this, so perhaps that then meant he was on the other side, seeking them out just as they were seeking him out. If that was the case, it meant he may very well be alright. But it could also simply be a trick of the Fade. Fane led the others back to the square and ignored the tight fear building in her chest. They had a baroness to take on.

It was only a short while before the moment arrived.

Just outside the manor’s gates, Justice and the men he’d disappeared with stood around what appeared to be a battering ram. It looked as though they’d cut down one of the smallest trees outside the village and carved its end to an approximately rounded point fit to break through the barricade given enough momentum. Around them, common citizens stood ready with weaponry and blazing torches in hand. Their blades were weathered with disuse and their expressions bespoke fear. The sky overhead had begun to darken unnaturally. It was time.

“Good people,” Justice announced and the crowd gathered at the helm of the gate. “We take the battle directly to the witch! For too long her crimes have gone unpunished. Now is the time to reclaim your freedom!”

The villagers roared their determination and the strongest among them stepped forward to lift the ram. Fane and the other Wardens joined them. Even with a dozen men to bear it, the weight of the trunk still felt impossibly heavy. Fane grunted as they lifted it to their waists, a few among them struggling visibly to maintain their hold, and a man near the head of the ram shouted a countdown. They gradually began swinging their arms: first in small, stiff motions, then more quickly and fluidly as their momentum began to build. The ram struck the gates for the first time with minimal force. The sound of the impact echoed through the streets, but the barricade refused to give way.

“Again!” shouted the man at the helm.

Summoning all their strength, they repeated their previous actions, swinging slowly at first and allowing them to gradually build speed before crashing the ram against the gates as hard as possible. This time, something within buckled. Once more and the gates crashed open, bearing the baroness’s lush garden to the angry hoard. The woman herself stood at the top of the sweeping staircases Fane had first seen back in reality. They lowered the ram to the earth slowly and Justice led the charge inside. They stood before her, weapons in hand, and she gazed down at them with a belittling smile that made Fane’s skin crawl.

She was impossibly beautiful. Her olive skin seemed paler for the thick, dark hair flowing freely around her shoulders, her green eyes set like gemstones in her small-featured face. She’d painted her lips ruby red in complement to the flowing gown she wore. The moonlight—for it was dark, now, as though the sun had plunged all at once—shone down upon her like a blessing. Fane watched as she lifted a smooth hand—one that had never once engaged in a day of work—and cast a small summoning spell. Two ash wraiths appeared behind her and the open cavities of their chests and skull-like faces stood in stark contrast with their mistress.

“My, my,” she shook her head. “All that shouting outside and now you’ve finally decided to barge in? Without even a proper invitation?”

Justice stepped forward, drawing his ethereal sword and shield, and gazed up at the baroness. Fane couldn’t see his expression from beneath the helmet he wore. Scornful, she imagined. She stepped forward as well.

“Foul sorceress,” the spirit spat. His fury seemed to roll off of him in waves. “You will release these poor folk and submit yourself to justice!”

“Justice? Is that what you call it?” the woman’s tone betrayed a private irony and her lips curled into a cruel smile. Her tone grew more serious as she added, “These people tried to burn my home to the ground with me in it! What of their punishment?”

“You were stealing our children!” someone shouted from the crowd behind them, voice raw with pain. “You used their blood to feed your vanity!”

That explained the inhuman beauty, Fane supposed. Another fool resorting to blood magic for her own selfish whims, hoping to escape death and aging for just bit longer. In the Fade, she would never age again. But at what cost?

“As was my due!” the baroness replied coldly. “You lived on  _ my _ land. Your blood was mine, just as your lives are now.”

Fury surged in Fane’s chest. “You’ve no right to the lives of innocents!”

The baroness paused and turned her gaze directly to Fane. She could practically feel the woman’s eyes rake down her body, evaluating her. “What’s this? The pathetic fools have recruited yet more sympathizers?”

“We’ve come to liberate this place,” Fane replied, allowing bravado to claim her speech for the moment. Whether or not what she hoped for could be accomplished hardly mattered. She’d long since learned her words were more for those she fought alongside, rather than those she fought against. The baroness deserved any fate which might befall her. “The Blackmarsh and the Fade have been merged for nearly a century thanks to your blood magic. No longer!”

A series of shouts rose behind her in agreement. The baroness merely leered down at them coldly. “You know nothing of what power you seek to oppose.”

“Enough!” Justice shouted, tense and prepared to leap into action. “The battle begins now!”

Lip curled in a veritable snarl, the baroness lifted her hands and seemed to tear a hole through the Veil, itself. The same suffocating light which surrounded them as they travelled into the Fade now latched around her throat with twice the strength, squeezing the very life from her chest as she was wrenched back into—

When Fane opened her eyes, she was decidedly no longer in the Fade. But neither was she in reality. Rather, it appeared the baroness’s magic had carried them to an arena beyond the boundaries of either realm, where the sky swirled thick with magic and each of Fane’s motions felt sluggish as she pulled herself to her feet. She spotted her companions nearby where they were clambering to their feet as well, but the villagers were nowhere to be found. Seemingly unperturbed by the hollow ringing of the in-between, Justice stood tall as ever. Half Fade, half reality. Perhaps this was the realm of spirits. Fane might have asked, but the words lodged in her throat when she looked ahead to see where the baroness had gone.

At the top of the stairs, where once an impossibly beautiful woman stood, now there was the largest, most wicked demon Fane ever had the displeasure of encountering. Half creature, half the marsh itself, its enormous, dark frame was wrapped from head to toe in the razor-like brambles they had carved their way through only a day ago. Its fingers ended in whip-like talons black as coal and six eyes glowed the same green as the Fade’s sky above its wide snout. Horns curled back from its head which looked sharp enough to spear a man, and Fane’s blood ran cold as it took a step forward and crushed the stairway’s stone railing to pieces with ease.

Maker have mercy.

Fane drew her sword and shield, but hesitated to charge as she normally would. Any attempts to attack the creature would only end in her own blood being spilled so long as it remained wrapped in brambles. But what other choice did they have? Neither of the mages knew fire spells to burn them away. And chopping at them would require putting herself within striking distance of its massive talons. They would have to strike from behind.

Raising her shield and feeling the cool wash of a barrier spell flood over her skin, Fane took a risk and charged the beast, slipping between its legs and feeling the scratch of brambles tear away the spell work in an instant. Her skin, however, remained unscathed. The demon’s whip-like talons struck hard earth and Fane spotted Anders weaving a massive spell. Where was Justice?

Fane struck at the back of its massive thigh with her blade, only to feel her heartbeat stutter when her blade bounced off as though nothing could possibly penetrate its unnatural mail. It was like fighting the Archdemon all over again. The baroness had become something impossibly corrupted—an evil beyond the ability of blades to cleanse.

“Get back!” Anders’ voice shouted from beyond her line of sight. Fane scrambled away from the creature and soon after a series of massive thunderbolts rained down upon it, locking the demon in place as the harsh white light dimmed the world around it and momentarily blinded her.

When the haze cleared, Fane found herself facing down the baroness once more, and it swung its massive claws, this time well within striking distance. Fane only just managed to stunt their path with the iron expanse of her round shield, all but cowering beneath it. She moved to dart around it, heedless of the damage she might incur in doing so, but the brambles caught the shield’s rivets and yanked it from her grasp, nearly taking her arm in the process. Having felt the pull almost instantly, Fane released the enarmes and relinquished the weapon. The leather sliced into the base of her palm, but she remained otherwise unharmed and managed to work her way behind the creature during the momentary confusion.

“Your swords and spells do naught!” Justice shouted. He stood beside her, now, and Fane watched as the spirit struck the demon across the legs with his own blade. The brambles did not give way so easily, but the ethereal steel did far more damage than her own might have hoped to. “You must distract it!”

“Velanna!” Fane shouted just as the elf summoned several coiling branches from the earth to wind around the beast’s legs. Oghren rushed past Fane with his axe raised and attempted to clip its shin, but swung too wide and threw himself to the earth, which allowed him to just miss another swipe. If he stood any taller, he’d be dead. The demon tore its legs free from the spell’s branches and turned its gaze on Velanna.

Justice had disappeared once again.

Shield-less, Fane did the only thing she could think of and bolted for the opposite end of the garden, catching the demon’s attention and bringing it as close to the set of steps—and as far away from the mages—as she possibly could. Thinking it had her cornered, it lifted both its fists and moved to strike, but she ducked once more between its legs and shouted in pain as the thorns tore into her skin, right through the studs on the shoulders of her blue, Warden tabard.

Several additional bolts of lightning cracked just as she cleared the demon, followed by a wash of healing magic that did little to sooth the pulsating sting in her shoulders, and she whipped around just in time to spot Justice leaping onto the creature’s back. He’d taken advantage of the demon’s proximity to the stairs in precisely the way she’d hoped he would and plunged his sword into the back of the creature’s neck. It roared in fury, shaking wildly, and threw Justice halfway across the arena. But his blade remained sunken into the beast’s flesh. Oghren, now behind the baroness, grabbed Fane’s discarded shield and all but hurled it her way. It landed a couple of feet short, too heavy for proper flight, but Fane managed to scoop it up and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Its absence had felt like missing a limb.

Moving more sluggishly now, Fane fended the demon off as best she could while hoping against hope that Justice might reappear at any moment to finish the job. He seemed to phase in and out of existence here, as though he couldn’t quite hold onto a semi-corporeal form. Any time Fane thought she’d spotted him out of the corner of her eye, he would vanish again.

Velanna cast the spell that rooted the demon in place one last time and Fane rushed around the creature, hoping to draw it back towards the staircases in the event it was foolish enough to repeat the same mistake twice. But to her surprise, Justice appeared once more, clutching the hilt of his abandoned sword in one hand, then two, driving the blade deeper into the creature’s flesh. When his feet at last found purchase against the brambles, his plate allowed him to climb the demon’s shoulders as it spun and writhed, withdraw his blade, and plunge it, once again, deep into the crown of the creature’s head. It cried out in agony and he repeated the action once more, and again, and again, until, at last, the demon slumped to the earth.

The shift was instantaneous. As the light faded from its eyes, so too did the world around them. Everything tilted suddenly, the sky pulled inward, and that all-too-familiar green light reappeared, blinding as ever. Something similar to pain seemed to stretch the very fiber of Fane’s being and for several moments, she couldn’t so much as see. But when she at long last came to, she found herself lying on her back in the marsh of reality, precisely where she’d been sucked in what felt like centuries ago, amid the charred husks of dozens and dozens of darkspawn pods.

The creature responsible for their adventure was nowhere to be found. The evening hummed quietly, thick with stench both from the marsh and the burning, and Fane sat up in enormous pain. Her left forearm was coated in blood from end to end. Beneath the tattered shoulders of her tabard, her skin looked as though it’d done battle with dozens of razor blades. Perhaps ducking between the demon’s legs hadn’t been the best option. But they were alive.

Anders and Velanna looked exhausted but no worse for the wear and, while Oghren’s nose was bloodied and bruised from his sudden collision with the earth, he seemed generally fine. Fane had taken the worst of it, and perhaps Justice, as well. Fane wished she could thank the spirit for saving their lives, but she had no doubt he was long gone. Possibly helping the spirits of the villagers cross into proper death.

Wincing at the tug of abused shoulder muscles, Fane looked skyward and blinked in surprise when she realized it was clear and full of stars. Gone was the wavering of nearly a century spent in unnaturally close proximity with the Fade. The Blackmarsh was just that—merely a marsh, again, or so it seemed—and Fane breathed a sigh of relief. It would be some time before the place could be restored to a port town, but for now, one of Ferelden’s deepest concerns had been put to rest.

“Thank the Maker it’s all over,” Anders voice caught Fane’s attention. She looked down to find the mage crouching in an effort to help her stand. She nodded and he swung his arm around her middle, helping her to her feet so she wouldn’t have to strain her shoulders.

“If I never see the Fade again it’ll be too soon,” Oghren groused. Fane could see more plainly now that his nose had been knocked askew. It hadn’t looked like he’d landed so hard during battle, but then, she’d hardly had time to pay attention. No doubt he’d have two ripe, black eyes in the morning. He prodded his nose gingerly and shrugged when he noticed her staring. “I’ve had worse.”

Anders would need to patch them all up when they got back to camp. Assuming, of course, camp hadn’t taken off without them. Fane turned her attention to Velanna, who was standing off to the side and lost in thought. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” the elf said curtly. No doubt she’d been hoping to find some more information about her sister. But the darkspawn hadn’t so much as reappeared. A waste of her time, though and through. “We should check on the others.”

The others. If ever the time came to discover what had happened to them, it was now. Fane quietly prayed to Andraste as they made their way back to the village that Nathaniel and the scouts had simply been left behind and weren’t lost to the Fade forever. Given what had happened in the village of the past, there was no telling.

The marsh had stilled exponentially since their trek out of the village that morning. No wolves, no darkspawn, no thorny brambles regrown at unnatural speeds. The chirp of insects and a light breeze stirring the bare branches overhead were the only sounds to accompany their footsteps and the clattering of armor and weaponry. Once they’d drawn closer to the village, a single ball of light illuminated the darkened path. Someone was heading towards them. Fane’s heartrate sped up instinctually and she shouted.

“Hello?”

“Maker’s balls!” a mildly familiar male voice shouted down the path. “You’re alright!”

Two figures raced toward them, faces gradually coming into view as the distance decreased. Jessek and Mina, the scouts, looked harried but otherwise unharmed. Somehow, it seemed, they’d avoided the magic’s blast and hadn’t been pulled into the Fade at all. Which could only mean…

“We’ve been worried sick!” Mina shouted. They came to a halt in front of them just seconds later. “You’ve been missing nearly three days! The marsh went back to normal not twenty minutes ago and we rushed out to see if it might’ve been your doing.” Three days. Fane marveled at the thought. Waiting in the village hadn’t felt like more than a couple of hours. But time always did move differently in the Fade. She was surprised the scouts had lingered so long without going to look for help. Mina noticed the blood coating Fane’s shoulders. “What’s happened to you?”

“It’s a long story,” Fane said and was caught off-guard by the exhaustion in your own voice. “And one we’ll gladly tell back at camp once our wounds have been tended to. But— Nathaniel Howe. Is he alright?”

“Yes, Ser,” Mina replied. Fane could’ve collapsed with the relief she felt then. “He went out to search the other half of the marsh. Hasn’t said much of anything, but I can tell he’s been worried sick. Been spending all day and half the night searching the marsh from end to end. It was like you’d vanished into thin air!”

That explained their encounter in the village. Fane swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, resisting the urge to rush towards the camp immediately. She wanted nothing more than to show him she’d lived. To prove to herself that he had, as well. But proper decorum had long since seared itself into her very being.

“And the others?” she asked instead. “Are they alright?”

“Yes, Ser,” Mina nodded. “It was only the four of you we were worried about. We sent most of the crew back to the Keep with word of your disappearance. The rest of us waited here to see if you’d turn up. We burned those darkspawn to bits, the blighters.”

“Thank Andraste for that,” Fane said. “You’ve handled Kristoff’s body, as well?”

Jessek nodded, “It’s back at camp. We’d’ve burned him by now, but the body was so well preserved. And his wife… We thought it’d only be right.”

His wife. Fane hadn’t known he had a wife. She nodded. “You’ve done well.”

Their most pressing business handled, the six of them made their way back to the empty village camp. Only two tents remained, but the fire pit still burned brightly. The rest of the unit they’d brought with them had packed up and left for Vigil’s Keep.

“We’ve found them!” Jessek shouted into the night air. Nathaniel wasn’t within sight, but he couldn’t have made it very far. Perhaps he might hear and come hurrying back.

Impatient, but too exhausted to go running off to track him down, Fane made her way over to the fire pit and sat. Anders quietly addressed Mina, asking her to gather him some basic supplies if any were left, and then joined her side. He gingerly lifted her wrist, peeling away her shredded glove, and inspected it, using the pail of fresh water Mina delivered moments later to sluice her arm clean.

For the moment, everything went comfortably still.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” the mage admitted quietly. “I was worried, for a moment.”

“Take down an Archdemon and the rest is child’s play, really,” Fane said, laughing at her own bravado. She swallowed thickly. “I was worried, too.”

“I’ll see if I can track down Howe,” Jessek said a few minutes later while Anders worked on Fane’s shoulders. “He can’t have gotten far.”

Anders managed to finish tending to her wounds—magicked and wrapped, the lot of them—when Jessek’s voice cried out from the other end of the village. “Found him!”

Feeling exponentially less terrible, Fane clambered to her feet and hurried towards the far gate. She rounded the corner of a house and went near breathless when she spotted Nathaniel not twenty paces away. His eyes met Fane’s almost instantly. He was alive. Thank the Maker, she hadn’t lost him yet. Even from this distance, his exhaustion was obvious in the slight slump of his shoulders and the dark bags beneath his eyes. Yet his expression brightened all the same, then softened into something much fonder, and he hurried to close the gap between them. For once, Fane didn’t attempt to restrain herself. She raced forward despite the fatigue which weighed her every step and collapsed into his waiting arms.

They held each other in silence. Fane squeezed her eyes shut to still the sudden build of tears and buried her face against his leather-clad chest. One of his hands slid into her hair and cupped the back of her head, and she reveled in the sensation of his naked fingertips against her scalp. The swell of her own emotions caught her off-guard. She’d never been so glad to find anyone alive in all her life.

“Fane,” Nathaniel whispered against the crown of her head. His arms held her tight against his chest and she breathed in the scent of him, equally unwilling to let go.

“Nathaniel. I was so terrified you’d been lost in the Fade,” Fane admitted after a moment, managing to keep her voice steady despite blinking tears from her eyes. She was afraid to look up. There were so many things, so many emotions that’d risen to the surface in the face of a separation which might very well have been permanent, that she hardly knew how to categorize them. But Nathaniel spared her the need for words, stroking her unbound hair in comfortable silence.

It might’ve been an age before she felt ready to let go, but a shriek drew them rapidly apart and they raced back to camp to see what had happened. Anders, Oghren, Velanna, and Mina were packed to one side of the fire, while a figure stood at the other end of camp, staring at its hands. As they drew closer, Fane stopped in her tracks. Kristoff’s corpse had seemingly risen from the grave.

“Kristoff?” she asked, uncertain of what else to do.

The corpse lifted his head and stared at her, and her heart began to thunder when she realized she recognized the presence just behind his eyes.

_ Justice _ .


	6. Breathing Life Into Smoldering Embers

_9:31 Dragon, 21 August_

The restoration of the Blackmarsh proved a major victory for the Wardens of Ferelden, though to begin with no one quite believed the news. It was only after three additional parties had ventured out to confirm it, one after the next, each seemingly haunted by disbelief upon their return, that the reality of their deed began to sink in. Good-tempered for perhaps the first time in months, Mistress Woolsey informed Fane that the reclamation of ports in the area would more than double trade potential for both the arling and its Keep. As such, many nobles were eager to express their gratitude and, at her council’s urging, Fane agreed to sanction a fete in honor of the Wardens’ victory, so long as the date could be postponed until _after_ they’d dealt with the darkspawn threat.

In the meantime, Fane indulged in some well-earned—though admittedly enforced—rest. The wounds on her shoulders were slow to heal and avoiding battle became something of a necessary evil. Anders assured her she would be fine within the week, but for the time being should confine herself to the Keep in the hopes of preventing any further injury. Her willingness to adhere to his advice conflicted with several reports indicating the darkspawn presence in the Knotwood Hills had become notably worse in the days they’d been absent. For all she prickled with frustration, she at last relented and sent Velanna, Oghren, and Justice with an entire unit of men to do a preliminary sweep of the area in the hopes that, by the time they returned, she might be well-mended enough to make the journey herself.

But too much rest eventually led to restlessness. Having indulged in enough sleep to last a lifetime, Fane found herself wide awake late in the evening with little in the way of entertainment. When at last she’d reached the precipice of madness watching shadows dance across her wall in the flickering light of her bedside candle, she threw on her linen shirt and trousers, crept out of her bedroom, and made her way to the Keep’s library.

Several guards gave her curt nods of acknowledgement as she passed through the Great Hall, then tread quietly down a wing of the Keep she’d rarely visited. So poorly travelled was it, in fact, it smelled rather more like must and mold than the stables. Yet the library proved to be something of a haven in its midst. As she pressed through the tall oak doors, she spotted the fireplace already glowing dimly, though it was on the verge of going out after having been neglected for a handful of hours. A plush rug beneath her feet softened her footsteps and she gravitated towards the fireplace, grabbing a log from the nearby stack and stirring the flames back to life. Eventually, the warm orange light was once again bright enough to illuminate the room.

The Howe family had been no strangers to books. Lining each of the walls and extending out into the middle of the room were dozens of bookcases that nearly reached the ceiling, each shelf packed end to end with volumes. Some she recognized immediately from her own family’s library. Others were a mystery. Curiously, she began pulling books off the shelf at random and put them back when the titles didn’t immediately catch her interest. A row of twelve dull blue volumes detailed in depth the rise of the Tevinter Imperium. In a fascinating turn, a shelf closer to the door seemed to house an entire collection of novels written by a dwarf from Orzammar, all of which were nothing but fantastical tales about exploring the Deep Roads. Fane paged briefly through a few, marveling when she stumbled upon an explicit sex scene supposedly taking place in the midst of an excursion. Who in Thedas was writing this drivel?

All the same, boredom pressed her to keep reading, as well as fascination. The author did know the Deep Roads were full of darkspawn, right? Yet these elven men were falling into each other’s arms like nothing dangerous could possibly stumble upon them while they were otherwise occupied. Before she realized it, she’d read half the chapter, and was so engrossed she didn’t even hear the door open and close.

“Good book, I take it?”

Fane all but leapt into the air when Nathaniel’s voice startled her out of her trance, snapping the book shut and setting it down on the shelf in front of her. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” he said, but was smiling in obvious amusement. He nodded towards the volume half-lying on the shelf. “Delilah loved those books.”

He couldn’t possibly be aware of their content.

“They’re… certainly something,” Fane said vaguely and slid the book back into the empty spot it’d left on the shelf. She might sneak one or two out with her on her way back to her room. They were trashy, but in such a marvelous fashion. She stole a glance at Nathaniel, who’d turned his attention to the shelves as well. “Sleepless night?”

Nathaniel nodded. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

“Oh?” Fane couldn’t help a small smile at that. They hadn’t had much time for each other in the days since their return. A new flood of recruits kept Nathaniel busy and Fane spent nearly two days bleeding in the infirmary while Anders worked over her wounds once every couple of hours. He’d popped in to visit once or twice, but only for a moment or two. They hadn’t properly spoken since the night before she’d been pulled into the Fade.

“I trust your wounds are healing?” he asked.

“Slowly.” She couldn’t resist griping and mindlessly reached up to trace her fingers along the edge of the bandage crossing her collarbone. “But yes.”

She caught his eyes lingering there and nonchalantly allowed her fingertips to linger, quietly taunting him. For his part, he didn’t seem to mind. But his expression turned serious.

“I heard you while you were in the Fade,” Nathaniel admitted. Fane thought of the chill that’d passed through her in the middle of that village street, of hearing Nathaniel’s voice calling out their names. “I was afraid we had lost you. But I heard your voice saying my name.”

“I heard you, too,” Fane said, letting her hand drop from her shoulder. Nathaniel’s gaze was locked with hers and she felt comforted by the fact. “I heard you searching for us on the other side of the Veil.”

“With Justice and Kristoff, I never got the chance to say it, but I’m glad you’re alright,” Nathaniel’s fingers twitched where they hung at his side, calloused and scarred by years wielding a bow. An impulsive thought drove her to wonder what they might feel like against her lips. “If I’d lost you…”

His words provoked a full swell of affection and Fane huffed a silent laugh. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m rather difficult to kill.”

“Thank the Maker for that,” Nathaniel said. He stepped forward and she fell easily—naturally—into his arms, basking for a moment in their welcome warmth. She wound her own around his waist, fingers glancing along the firm muscles of his back through the thin linen of his shirt. After a long moment of silence, Nathaniel pulled away, looking down at her with that serious expression in place once again. His fingertips traced her arm, falling short of the bandages faintly visible beneath her sleeve. “It’s time we talked about this.”

“I care for you,” Fane said immediately, and could’ve punched herself for her forwardness. It’d been such a long time coming, however, that when the opportunity to speak the words had at last been presented, she could hardly hold them back. Nathaniel smiled at her softly and she squeezed his arm, repeating herself. “Deeply.”

“I see I needn’t have worried,” Nathaniel laughed good-naturedly. “I care for you, too.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. “More than you yet know.”

Fane lingered there a moment, enjoying the tender proximity, before pulling back a bit and raising her fingertips to trace along the stubbled line of his jaw. “You were worried?”

“My father’s deeds haven’t changed,” Nathaniel said with certainty. “And those feelings rightfully haven’t vanished. You’ve been kind, but I was hesitant to believe you could feel anything for me, even so.”

“Your father’s actions are his alone,” Fane repeated the words one last time. “I think it took us both time to recognize that. But I’m grateful to have you here, Nathaniel.”

She watched his eyes trace the curve of her lips before returning to her own, as if asking for permission. Gone were the days their gray conjured thoughts of daggers sinking into her back. Now she suppressed a shudder at their caress. Her fingertips trailed from his jaw down the side of his neck, then to the back of it, and she pulled him in, stopping just shy of the kiss she knew they both wanted.

She savored the faintest brush of skin for a moment and pulled in a soft breath before Nathaniel surged in to finish the job for her, kissing her hard at first, then more tenderly, until she went pliant in his arms. He kissed like he’d waited centuries, hands clutching her hips with unexpected intensity. She tugged at his hair, just a little, and he retaliated with the sudden introduction of tongue, sweeping gently across her lips before peeking inside to meet her own. Maker have mercy. She clutched at his bicep and gasped at the firm mass of muscle she found there, like stone in her palm.

Nathaniel pulled away and laughed—actually laughed, gravelly and strange and low as it was—before burying his face against her neck and pressing a kiss to it. He pulled back to look her in the eyes. “Anders was right. You really do have a thing for my arms.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response, nor did she comment on the way he and Anders apparently gossiped like hens, but instead simply squeezed his arm again around another privately impish grin. He kissed her neck softly, trailing a blazing line from just below her ear down to her collar bone, careful of the bandages, and she felt the wash of pleasure right down to her toes.

“Less teasing and more of that, please,” she said, holding the back of his head in place.

She heard no complaints. He blindly turned them to press her back against the shelves, looming over her as he lavished her neck with kisses and nipped gently at the skin where neck met shoulder, sending another thrill down the length of her body. A reminder of where he’d been. Spurred to action, she tugged him back up to meet her lips and the two of them kissed for a long while, heedless of any potential interruptions. Though the frequency of their midnight meetings bordered on ridiculous, they certainly had their benefits.

Nathaniel tugged her shirt out from where she tucked it into her pants and slipped his hand beneath it, resting his palm flat against her stomach. She welcomed the touch, canting her hips forward against his, only to be pressed more firmly against the wall as his hand slid around to rest against the expanse of her lower back.

“You are a force to be reckoned with,” he observed when at last they parted and reach up to brush a strand of black hair from her face. He pressed a soft kiss against her temple, the apple of her cheek, her lips.

“Just wait until I show you the rest,” she murmured.

After another appropriately dizzying handful of minutes, Nathaniel tugged at her earlobe with his teeth and replied in a low voice, “My room is down the hall.”

The mere suggestion plainly demonstrated just how useless both of their minds had become. She laughed at the absurdity.

“The room you share with three other men? In your one-man bunk? The top bunk?” Her relentlessness would do her no favors, but she couldn’t help it. She pressed a lingering kiss to his lips in apology. “I’ll pass.”

“Where, then?” the eagerness and low passion in his voice was a compliment, the lips on her neck like worship.

It took her another moment of relishing in sensation before she could think clearly enough to answer him. “I’d like to enjoy this as much as possible.” The hand he’d rested in the small of her back trailed lower, brushing across her ass teasingly. She pulled away from his lips and rested her forehead against his chest. “You’re making this very difficult.”

“I’m trying.”

She laced her fingers behind his neck, resisting the urge to lean in again. As much as she’d love to jump into bed with him right this minute, the prospect of her shoulders bleeding all over the place wasn’t exactly sexy. “I’m not supposed to be involved in any strenuous activity. But I should be healed in the next couple of days.”

“That long?” he asked, clearly teasing.

“My room, two nights from now,” she said, unable to resist the urge to tease a bit more. “Then I won’t bleed all over you. It’ll be much more enjoyable overall.”

The thought of waiting was something akin to torture for the both of them, but if they’d waited this long, they could endure anything.

“People will gossip,” he reminded her.

“They always do,” she agreed. He leaned in for another kiss which grew deeper as the minutes ticked by. She let him have his way a moment or two longer, then another, and another, and one more for good measure, until at last she ducked quickly around him, laughing and placing herself safely out of his reach. He whipped around to face her. “Second room in the family wing.”

“My sister’s,” he pulled a face. She took the opportunity to duck in and smack one last kiss against his cheek. His sister’s room or not, she knew he’d come. Dizzy as she was, she remembered to grab a couple of those Dwarven novels on her way out.

 

* * *

 

_9:31 Dragon, 23 August_

The wait seemed to drag on forever, even with all the furtive kisses they’d shared in alcoves around the Keep over the last two days.

With her wounds tentatively healed and the first excursion to the Hills returned in one piece, Fane occupied her mind by immediately moving into the preparations necessary for their next journey. The Mother and the Architect remained ever-present in the forefront of her mind, and she had a strong suspicion their battle against one another was to blame for the rapid increase in darkspawn presence so soon after the Blight. Perhaps this would be the trip which solved things once and for all. But a piece of her doubted it.

Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be able to leave for another two days and any measure of activity with which to occupy herself was quickly extinguished. For once, the nobles were satiated. All pressing matters around the Keep had been dealt with. The darkspawn in the hills had been tamed for now and no imminent disasters loomed. While Fane would’ve simply expedited her promised meeting with Nathaniel, Anders would have never forgiven her if she’d made him work double on an injury otherwise preventable. Which left her with entirely too much time to simply _think_.

Sitting in the infirmary late in the day, Anders removed the last of Fane’s bandages and agreed that she was now officially whole again. She had a thick new scar across her wrist and would be speckled across the shoulders for some time to come, but the worst of the ordeal had officially passed.

“That demon was a nasty piece of work, but lucky for you, I’m good at my job,” the mage smirked. His finger glanced across a spot just above her collarbone and he waggled his eyebrows once, grinning salaciously. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” she asked, trying and failing to angle her neck in order to glance at the spot.

“If I didn’t know any better, dear Commander, I might call that a love bite.” Fane tried her best to appear innocent, but flushed despite her efforts.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anders deadpanned at her, then carried her mostly clean, discarded bandages over to the bin and dropped them inside. He levelled his gaze from across the room and folded his arms suspiciously. “And I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about the strikingly coincidental mark on Nathaniel’s ear, either?”

She cracked under his pointed gaze. “You knew this would happen.”

“Ah, Commander,” Anders cooed. “I’m so proud. My heart’s all a-flutter.”

Fane rolled her eyes and stood up from the stool she’d been sitting on. “Good to know the teasing has no end.”

Anders shook his head, but was smiling all the same. “Honestly it’s like you don’t even know me.”

By the time night rolled around, every inch of Fane’s skin hummed with low energy.

For all that she’d anticipated the day being unbearably long, as it continued to drag on she began to believe it might never end. She encountered Nathaniel once on her way to the training grounds a short while after lunch and when his eyes met hers she nearly came undone with the way his gaze seemed to rake over her. His eyes glimmered with the obvious intent to take her apart, piece by piece. It worked. She could hardly focus on training recruits in the hours which followed, mind too preoccupied with the thought of his hands naked on her hips, his lips on her throat, the pause as he leaned in to kiss her just before slipping his hand between her legs and—

_Maker preserve_.

Fane perched at the foot of her mattress, dressed in nothing but a thin nightgown and her smallclothes, attempting to talk herself out of taking a peek down the hall. The guards would be suspicious enough when he arrived at such an unusual hour—she hardly needed to make her anticipation obvious. They’d waited months now. What was another few moments?

The Keep had only just begun to still for the evening, the clamor of armor and weaponry absent from the courtyard, no voices carrying from anywhere nearby. Through her window the small collection of dwellings beyond the inner walls glowed in the moonlight. Stars pockmarked the sky between a smattering of grey clouds and the fire in Wade’s forge—running vigilantly even now—illuminated the courtyard. A low chirping of crickets, an even-tempered thunk of hammer on metal. She crossed her arms and squeezed her elbows.

What if he’d changed his mind?

A foolish thought, but one she couldn’t seem to shake. Even after the moment they’d shared in the library, it wasn’t as though the man couldn’t decide otherwise. But why would he? He’d seemed plenty eager in the courtyard. More likely was the possibility something had held him up—a guard questioning why he was skulking about the family wing or Anders, intent on a bout of relentless teasing. Something.

Fane stood and extinguished the torch on the far wall, leaving the room with little for illumination beyond her bedside candle. The warm orange glow made the area feel a bit more comfortable, a bit more private; a bit more sensual, if Nathaniel ever decided to arrive. The thunking in the courtyard finally stopped. No doubt Herren had at last convinced Wade to come to bed for the night; the man would work until dawn otherwise.

Two light taps at her window suddenly drew her attention. She turned her gaze and found Nathaniel crouching just beyond, that private smile in place once more. She unlatched the window and pushed it open, and he quickly slipped inside.

“This is a bit secretive, isn’t it?” she asked, privately thrilled. “There is a door, you know.”

“Guarded by six men between here and the Great Hall,” Nathaniel agreed. He latched the window behind him. “The second time I got stopped I decided this was easier.”

“I take it they weren’t quite willing to believe I’d welcome a Howe at this hour?” she asked. His large hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her close, tucking her against his chest. Her arms wrapped around his waist and his chin rested on the crown of her head. She felt him huff a silent laugh.

“Not without specifics I wasn’t willing to give,” he murmured, pressing his lips into her hair. She rubbed his back gently, enjoying the comfort of closeness.

“This is more exciting anyways,” Fane admitted.

After a long moment he pulled back, looking down at her as she gazed up at him, blue eyes meeting gray. The first touch of his lips to her own was fleeting, like a butterfly alighting before once again moving away. His fingers tangled in her hair. The low energy fueling her every motion had quickly become a powerful storm, her body alive with the sensation of his touch. When at last he kissed her properly, it felt like cresting a wave at sea.

Their kisses were chaste at first, gentle and close-mouthed brushes and pecks gradually transforming into the more exciting variety, spurred onward by the wicked jolt she felt biting down on his lower lip and tugging at it. His hand left her hair and instead moved to cup her face, tilting her chin upward as he licked his way into her mouth. Her tongue met his. She smiled against his lips.

They parted a few minutes later, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, and she noticed Nathaniel quietly swallow the lump in his throat before asking, “Are you ready?”

The word left her lips with absolute certainty. “Yes.”

Gently, Nathaniel maneuvered her towards the bed, sitting her down in front of him. He wasn’t dressed in his leathers like usual, but instead wore the simple linen shirt and trousers she’d seen two nights ago—clothing comfortable enough to sleep in. He tugged his shirt over his head. She’d often seen his arms courtesy of the sleeveless leathers he sometimes favored, but the firm muscles of his chest and stomach were another pleasant surprise altogether. Maker preserve her. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch, to place a kiss just above his navel. He stepped forward and placed a knee beside her on the bed. She scooted back until her head rested comfortably among the pillows and he crawled his way over her, leaning down to kiss the side of her neck just once.

“It’s been awhile,” he admitted. “If I’m hurting you, say the word and I’ll stop.”

She propped herself up on her elbows and kissed him for a long moment. “I will.”

With that, he carefully laid himself half on top of her, his left hand caressing her from the side of her head down to her hip. Fane suppressed a gasp as she touched his naked back for the first time, the sensation of so much skin upon skin unbearably erotic after so many months of gloved hands and meaningful glances. He kissed her neck, working his way up from her collarbone to just behind her ear, and tangled the fingers of his right hand with her left. She slipped the hand on his back down to the waistband of his pants. Her fingers peeked inside and she felt him smile against her skin.

“We need less clothes,” he suggested. She nodded.

In one quick movement, he grabbed her waist and reversed their positions so that she found herself straddling him, feeling impossibly vulnerable. Nathaniel’s large hands gripped her thighs and pushed her nightgown up to her waist. She leaned down and kissed him. His hands came to a halt against her now-mostly naked hips, teasing at the waistband of her smallclothes. She pressed a line of kisses along the length of his jaw—perpetually stubbled, she now knew—and stopped to nip at the two-day-old mark on his earlobe. When she was satisfied, she pulled away and reached down to grab the bottom of her nightgown, tugging it up over her head and discarding it on the floor beside her bed. His eyes wandered. She let them for a moment, then leaned forward to nose at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Nathaniel’s hands cupped her breasts between them, nipples already hardened from a combination of the slight chill and the sweet tension of the moment. He thumbed them lightly and she raised her lips from his neck to kiss him once more. His hands slid around to her back, pulling her close. Fane sighed when her chest pressed full against his own. She tangled the fingers of one hand in his hair and left the other draped delicately over his shoulder.

It was a long while before either of them could think properly. When at last the haze had cleared, Fane reached down between them and brushed her fingers over the bulge in his trousers, earning a soft grunt for her efforts. She untied the laces. He shimmied out of his pants and at last they were both on even ground. He pushed her back down into the mattress and kissed her lips before turning his attention elsewhere.

Nathaniel mouthed his way down to her breasts and flicked his tongue against one of her nipples, pulling an unexpected moan from the depths of her throat. He bit her, very gently, coaxing the nub to almost painful hardness, then gave the other the very same treatment. In the meantime, one of his hands reached down and tugged at the sides of her smallclothes, pulling them down over her hips. Eventually he realized his task couldn’t be accomplished in their current position. He kissed a line down her stomach and sat back before tugging the fabric away as deftly as he could, discarding the item of clothing on the floor. At last she was completely naked before him. She caught his smile, the hunger in his eyes. She pressed her knees together out of slight embarrassment, but he quickly parted them, kissing a messy trail from her knee to the very top of her thigh, mere inches from where she wanted him most. His teasing nature was unrelenting. He did the very same to her other leg, then moved back up to kiss her on the lips.

“You’re the worst,” she murmured, gasping when his fingers finally grazed against her.

“You’re gorgeous,” he replied. Unbearably slowly, his index finger slicked across her once, twice, a third time, then circled gently. She moaned. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

A second finger joined the first, rubbing carefully, dipping inside her before pulling away, easing the sensation to agony. She bit her lip hard and just when she felt as though she’d reached a precipice she was in full danger of tumbling over, he stopped. He slid down her body and paused with his head between her knees. He leaned in and kissed her there, once, before pulling back.

“Do you want me to—”

“Maker, _yes_.”

The first lave of his tongue made her thighs tense to an almost painful degree, the second even more-so. She pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly as he learned the rhythm, stroking her again, the pleasure becoming impossibly intense. Fane gasped when his tongue dipped inside of her—for just a phantom of an instant—and she sharply tugged at his hair without thinking. She could feel him laugh against her. He resumed his rhythm, growing steadily faster, the pressure building, coiling inside of her, until finally it peaked and released in waves of overwhelming sensation, swallowing her whole. She cried out and quickly covered her mouth, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

“Nathaniel,” she half-panted. “Where—”

He kissed each of her hipbones, then steadily worked his way back up to eye-level. She lost her train of thought when he admitted, “I’ve wanted to do that for months.”

Months. They could’ve been doing this for months. Why hadn’t they done this sooner?

Fane surged forward and kissed him deeply, already plotting how they might make up for lost time. She felt him smile against her lips as they lost themselves for several moments, but when he pulled away—now looming over her with his hands planted firmly on the mattress at either side of her head—he looked serious. He started to speak, but when she reached across the small space between them and stroked the rigid outline of him through his smallclothes, his eyes fell closed and he made a small sound of pleasure instead. She smirked in self-satisfaction. His dark hair hung loose around his shoulders and she realized belatedly that she must’ve pulled in free on accident.

“Take the rest of your clothes off and lie down,” she instructed, trailing a finger along the thin line of dark hair running up to his navel. Her movements were languid in the aftermath of orgasm and she slowly propped herself up on her elbows. He did as he was told.

It’d been entirely too long since she’d last done something like this, she decided. Nathaniel, now naked, watched as she seated herself on his thighs.

“Like what you see?” Fane teased. He followed her eyes to his erection standing firm between them. She flushed a little at the sight.

With a delicate grip—loose enough to be maddening, she hoped, as he full deserved it—she took him in hand and smoothed her thumb across the head. He tried to grasp her thighs, but wasn’t quite able to reach, and settled instead for gripping at the bedsheets. She stroked him gently as she spoke to him in a hushed voice.

“Do you prefer we do it this way?” she asked and scooted forward so that he could feel her warmth. Tantalizingly close no doubt, but not near enough.

“This is a cruelty, my lady,” Nathaniel ground out. He squeezed her thighs now that they were within his reach.

With her free hand, she brushed her thumb across one of his nipples, just to see how he would react. He seized her hand and she gasped, but he only pulled it to his lips and pressed a dry kiss to her knuckles. She laughed and couldn’t help pausing to lean forward and kiss him properly.

He took that as his opportunity. Crushing her tightly against his chest, he rolled them over and pinned her to the mattress. She huffed as the wind was knocked out of her and her heart began to race excitedly. Once again he positioned himself between her thighs, hips carefully aligned with hers, and paused to catch her gaze. She bit her lip and was surprised to find herself nothing short of desperate for him to continue.

“You’re ready?” he asked.

Unable to speak, she simply nodded and wriggled her hips impatiently. He took himself in hand and she watched as he carefully guided himself into her. _At last_. She forgot to breathe for an instant, too overwhelmed by the sudden sense of fullness just tipping over the cusp into pain. She panted, eyes closed, and felt his fingertips gently trace the length of her jaw. He went still while she became accustomed to the sensation. When she felt ready, she took his hand delicately in her own and he kissed her tenderly.

Moments later, he began to move. Fane groaned with the slow, slick motion of his hips and let her head fall back more deeply into the pillow beneath her, exposing her neck to intermittent kisses as he held himself over her on his elbows. He made love to her slowly, each thrust deep but gentle, and she dug her fingers into his back as, together, they steadily worked their way towards the edge once more.

“Fane,” Nathaniel murmured and blindly kissed the side of her face. His breaths had become harsher. She pulled him close, canted her hips a little, and crossed her ankles behind his back.

No longer able to maintain the agonizing rhythm with which he’d set out, Nathaniel began to move more quickly. His nose pressed against the side of her neck and small noises of desire escaped her throat, too many silent nights now erased by their union, passion gradually blossoming into something greater.

Fane was the first to cry out, seizing beneath him and unintentionally digging her nails into his back, muscles tight in her stomach and shoulders as she curled inwards, just a little. The motion of his hips grew unsteady, then erratic, and he was quick to follow, his choked moan loud in her ear. He tensed, then stilled, and slowly lowered himself to lie on top of her, simply breathing against her skin for a long while.

Fane turned her head and kissed his ear when the storm within her had at last begun to still. He lifted his head from her shoulder and brought his lips to her own. He kissed her languidly, again and again as they came down from their shared high, and Fane carefully traced the length of one of his collarbones with her fingertips before pulling back to look him in the eyes. He gazed down at her with impossible affection. His eyes were soft and his smile was tender, and she gazed back with equal warmth, unable to let him draw away. She brushed a strand of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. They kissed for another long while.

Eventually relaxation transformed into exhaustion.

“Will you stay here?” Fane asked as he rolled over to lie beside her rather than on top of her.

Now exposed to the chill of the chamber around them, she fumbled blindly for the blanket half-shoved onto the floor. The candle beside her bed glowed dimly and had nearly guttered out. Nathaniel stared back at her and smiled.

“Are you asking as Commander of the Gray?” he taunted. “Or Fane?”

She was too tired for teasing. She scooted closer, threw the blanket over both of them, and rested her forehead against his. “Whichever works best.”

Nathaniel’s nose brushed gently against hers and one of his arms wrapped loosely around her back.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I’ll stay here every night if I’m welcome.”

Too sated for inhibitions, she murmured, “Stay forever.”

Nathaniel just laughed, low and genuine, and she fell asleep with her head on his chest.


	7. Epilogue

_ 9:31 Dragon, 3 Harvestmere _

Fane watched the first unseasonable snowflakes flutter to the earth and heaved a sigh of relief. She was bleeding, bruised, and exhausted, but the Mother’s massive emissary lay dead and Amaranthine had stilled. The city was saved. She only hoped Vigil’s Keep had favored so well. Not for the first time, she privately regretted sending Anders back to tend to the defending soldiers. The wound to her head stung something fierce and for all that the battle within the city walls was won, they would soon set off for the Mother’s lair.

A local surgeon had taken to tending their wounds the old fashioned way. Seated on an upturned barrel, Fane winced when he washed a bit of wine over the deep gash across the top of her arm. The wound would likely end in another scar. She glanced towards the city gates and frowned. Nathaniel had been desperate to know if his sister survived. As soon as the ogre had fallen, he took off into the city and she hadn’t seen him since. She hoped against hope that Delilah was well, but the number of bodies littering the streets wasn’t promising. They’d done all they could. It had to be enough.

Another several minutes passed before a messenger arrived, breathless. He stopped in front of Fane and saluted. “Commander.”

“At ease,” she said. The man huffed a moment, then drew a rolled bit of parchment from his bag and passed it to her.

“Teyrn Cousland has caught word of the darkspawn attack on Amaranthine,” the messenger said. Fane recognized Fergus’s signature at the bottom of the document. “He and his men march even now for the city.”

Fane’s heart swelled with gratitude. Even from so far away, her brother kept an eye on her. But the man didn’t yet understand the gift he’d bestowed. The lair stood just between Castle Cousland and Amaranthine. With any luck, they’d meet on the path and could surge onward together, forces twice as strong.

“Maker smile on him,” she murmured, re-rolling the order. “We’ll need his help elsewhere, but it’s along the way. We’re like to encounter one another on the path.” The messenger nodded and leaned against a nearby fence, exhausted from his no doubt lengthy ride. “Rest awhile. You’ve done well.”

They would need to leave shortly. Fane cast another glance at the gates and her eyebrows drew together when she spotted Nathaniel hurrying towards their caravan. As he came closer, she noticed he looked far more relaxed than anyone who’d just discovered the death of their final sibling. She felt a wash of relief.

“They live,” he said when he reached her. “Delilah and her husband. They kept huddled in the basement the entire time. They’re both alright.” Nathaniel drew her into his arms, joy apparent, and she hugged him tightly. “Thank the Maker.”

They hadn’t lost anyone yet. They had their siblings. They had each other.

“To the Mother’s lair?” he asked. She nodded, feeling a twinge of unease in her gut. They could die if things went poorly. No one yet knew what power the Mother possessed. And even with the Architect on their side…

“I love you,” she said. He leaned in and kissed her, then pressed his forehead to hers for just a moment. “I needed to tell you that, just in case.”

“I’ve no doubt we’ll succeed,” Nathaniel promised. Her mind calmed. “We always do.” He stepped back and even the short distance between them seemed to ache. “I love you.”

Fane wrapped her hand around the hilt of her sword and led the way back to the forefront of their caravan, shouting the necessary calls to arms. Death may well find them. But in the meantime, they found comfort in one another.

She stepped into her horse’s stirrup and seated herself in the saddle, then cast one last glance at Nathaniel, who, mounted on his own horse beside her, nodded in certainty.

The Mother awaited.


End file.
